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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618322">Talk</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303'>Trin303</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Imagine Being Loved By Me [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>John Wick (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Assassins &amp; Hitmen, BAMF Helen Wick, BAMF John Wick, F/M, Intellectual Foreplay, John Wick is completely Helensexual, John Wick needs a therapist, Mental Health Issues, Mobsters, Obsessive John Wick, Protective John Wick, Slow Burn, The Continental, Therapist! Helen Wick, and now has a mind of its own, this started as a kinktober plotbunny and exploded</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:29:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>103,717</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trin303/pseuds/Trin303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you give me too much credit.” He says softly.<br/>“I don’t. But then, we’ve discussed your issues with self-esteem before.”<br/>John rolls his eyes, “I don’t have poor self-esteem.”<br/>“Oh, I agree. You have no self-esteem.”</p><p>....<br/>John Wick is in love with his therapist, Helen. He knows nothing can ever happen between them and is content to love her from afar. Of course, that plan goes all to hell when his enemies find out that the Boogeyman is capable of feelings.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Helen Wick/John Wick</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Imagine Being Loved By Me [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192403</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I Won't Deny I've Got on My Mind Now (all the things I would do)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John's anxiety always built up during this time, cresting as he waits for the clock to hit 3:55, at which point, he will go inside. He’s already watched her last client exit a few minutes ago and he can picture her in her office, tidying things, finishing off her notes, perhaps sipping on her afternoon tea.</p><p>It had been on a whim that he ran into her. It was on a Sunday morning after a particularly difficult case. He had ended up sitting in a small café, his knuckles bloody and guilt flowing through him at how everything had fallen apart. He didn’t often work with partners, but he had been hired with another assassin to ensure the success of the mission.</p><p>He had never worked with the man who called himself the Undertaker before. And he never would again. John had broken his neck when he found him trying to abuse their target’s wife.</p><p>They had been hired for a kill and that was fine by John. He had no moral qualms about what he did. And it wasn’t the first time he had heard about an assassin abusing their power, but it made him sick to know that something like that had gone on while he was there.</p><p>And while he had been sitting in misery, Helen had marched her way over and into his life.</p><p>She had introduced herself as she handed him a fresh coffee and a scone, “Give me a call, we can chat.” And she had passed him her card.</p><p>Assassins didn’t see therapists and there was a reason for that.</p><p>For starters, no assassin in their right mind would admit to a mandated reporter what they did.</p><p>But on top of that, talking to a therapist was highly frowned upon. Winston would have him skinned if he knew that John met with someone each week to talk about his feelings.</p><p>But Helen Kingston was a fucking wonder.</p><p>She was bright and clever. It was as if a whole person had been created from nothing but empathy.</p><p>It took him a while to open up.</p><p>Part of that was the careful line he had to tread regarding what he did. The other part was just John.  He’d never talked to anyone about his life before. Not really. Even the people in his life he was closest to, Marcus and Aurelio and Sofia, had no idea about his childhood.</p><p>Jardani Jovonovich was as good as dead. And the only people who still knew that name were in the past. It had been decades since he saw any of the Ruska Roma.</p><p>But Helen knew all that there was to know.</p><p>Being abandoned by his parents and raised as a Romani orphan. Being taken to the United States and being forced to run drugs and fight other kids for sport and entertainment.</p><p>She knew about him running away.</p><p>About the years spent starving and homeless, working odd jobs under the table to survive.</p><p>How he joined the Marines just to have a roof over his head and how he had been exceptionally good as a soldier. Exceptionally good at killing.</p><p>It took longer to open up about everything else.</p><p>He knew she was a mandated reporter. He’d even looked up the extent of what that meant for people in her position. If he admitted to committing dangerous crimes, she would have no choice but to report him to the police. That kept him silent for a long damn time.</p><p>Until one day, she brought it up.</p><p>
  <em>“You never talk about your life now. You won’t even tell me what you do. And I know that your childhood affected you, made you who you are, but you aren’t exactly fixated on your past.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What’s done is done.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“An evasive answer.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You didn’t ask me a question.” He countered, his lips twitching in amusement.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fair enough.” Helen had smiled at him softly, her eyes assessing him and John would swear that she could see into his soul. “But if I asked you what you do, would you tell me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Alright. Would you tell me why you won’t tell me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>John had swallowed, “I suspect you already know.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Tarasoff versus Regents.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The case that determined that therapists had to report any dangerous crime. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“If I say yes, will you report me?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Rules are an interesting thing.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Evasive answer.” John quipped and Helen gave him that real, true smile that made his stomach drop and his heart race.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She considered her words before she answered, “Which do you value more, John? Rules, laws and order? Or your personal brand of morality?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Morality.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She hummed, “I feel the same. Of course, I would never force you to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable, nor would I push you to bestow that level of trust on me, but I swear to you, John, that I will keep what is said between us in confidence.”</em>
</p><p>And fuck him but he believed her.</p><p>And she was incredibly grateful that he was her last session of the day because when it finally came out, it poured from him. Everything. Being recruited as an assassin. Becoming the Baba Yaga, Lo Spectro. Going from being homeless to wealthy almost overnight.</p><p>Losing track of how many people he killed.</p><p>They stayed late into the night and Helen listened to everything.</p><p>It was the first time they had crossed the boundaries. But not the last.</p><p>After that week, John waited for the fallout. For the inevitable visit by police to try and arrest him before he killed them all and ran.</p><p>But they never came.</p><p>John found himself, one night, waiting outside Helen’s office. He followed her home and waited outside all night. Well, not all night. Early in the morning, when he was certain she was asleep, he had crept inside. Her lock was pathetic, and it worried him to no end. It had taken him less than a minute to break in.</p><p>Her house was what he had expected. Soft and inviting. Just like her.</p><p>He watched her sleep.</p><p>It took everything he had not to crawl in bed with her and hold her through the night.</p><p>But he didn’t and he left before her alarm went off.</p><p>It became a ritual. Not every night but often enough. When John couldn’t sleep or after difficult cases, he found himself driving to her home almost on autopilot.</p><p>After a few weeks, a chair was placed in the corner of her room.</p><p>He couldn’t be certain that it was put there with intentionality. They never talked about it but, at times, he wondered if she knew about his late-night visits.</p><p>The clock turns to three fifty-five and John turns his car off and heads into her office building.</p><p>The door to her office is open and she is sitting, taking notes at her desk. He stands in her doorway, watching as she places the top of her pen between her lips.</p><p>John finds himself swallowing, thinking about what else she could place between those lips.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“You can come in, John.” She says, not looking up.</p><p>And Helen is good at that. He’s known as a ghost in many circles but Helen seems to have a sixth sense for when he is in her office. Even when he tries to stay quiet and out of sight, she always sees him.</p><p>It’s disconcerting and another reason that he’s almost certain that she <em>must </em>know what he gets up to in the early hours of the morning.</p><p>Helen closes her notebook and stands, glancing over at him. She looks him up and down and gives a small smile. “You look tired. Late night?”</p><p>The surface level question sank so much deeper and, again, he can’t figure out if she knows.</p><p>Instead, he just nods.</p><p>“Have another one planned for tonight?”</p><p>John swallows because, fuck. He planned on having dinner at the Continental while he was in the city, perhaps chatting with the Sommelier on new weapon upgrades, before driving back to her house.</p><p>He nods again and Helen slips in a dark roast coffee into her Keurig. There’s nothing special about the coffee she makes for him. It’s just a k-cup in a standard, cost efficient brand, but it always tastes better knowing that Helen has made it.</p><p>“How has your week been?” She asks as she clears off her desk.</p><p>“Busy.” He answers inhaling the calming scent of her office. Vanilla and patchouli mix in the air with the scent of fresh coffee.</p><p>It feels more like home than his house ever has.</p><p>“Work?”</p><p>“Mostly. Buisness always picks up when it gets cold out.”</p><p>“Really? I thought there was a correlation with high crime rates in the summer?”</p><p>He smiles as she hands him the coffee, “Technically, yes, but many of those are more impulsive acts. Gangs are more active when it’s warm enough to go out and guns are easier to operate without heavy gloves.”</p><p>It’s Helen’s turn to smirk as she takes her seat in her armchair. John takes the seat across from her, sipping on his coffee before continuing, “But when it gets dark earlier, people tend to get moodier. And not having as many activities out of the house makes families a little stir crazy. Is it still patricide if you pay someone else to kill your father?”</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “I suppose that depends on if you think of yourself as a tool or an active agent.”</p><p>“Most days, I’m not sure what I am.” He admits, leaning back. Again, he is struck that he can be in her presence for only a few minutes and already, she has him contemplating and discussing his life.</p><p>“A loaded statement.”</p><p>“Yet true all the same. In many ways, I’m a tool to the people who hire me. They choose from a variety of assassins. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. Much in the same way that I choose between a gun, a knife, and my hands.”</p><p>Her shoulders tense at that statement but her face doesn’t change. That gentle smile still resides on her lips.</p><p>“An agent of your own mind but a tool to others.” She clarifies, “I wonder how it feels to believe that others look at you as a tool.”</p><p>“It’s what I’m good at, I suppose. We tend to remember people for what they’re easy extremely good or bad at. Our triumphs and mistakes mark us in the eyes of others forever.”</p><p>“And do you think of that often? How you will be remembered?”</p><p>“I know how I’ll be remembered.” John says with a small shake of his head, “I’ll be Baba Yaga until I die.”</p><p>She hums, “I imagine that must be dually frustrating and freeing.”</p><p>Yes.</p><p>John nods, thoughtfully. “It’s… easy. I suppose that’s the freeing aspect. I don’t need to worry what others think because I already know what they think. What they see when they look at me. But…”</p><p>He’s not sure how to continue.</p><p>But Helen sits in silence, not judging. Just waiting.</p><p>John blinks, “There are times that I wish things were different.”</p><p>“That’s very common. We all have parts of our lives that we would change if we could.”</p><p>“But that’s the thing.” John meets her eyes and shakes his head, “I never had that. I’ve always been content to just,” he shrugs a shoulder, “Let things lie. Things are how they are. Even when I was homeless, I never wanted a house. I was just kind of like… okay, this is how it is. And I know my job is complicated to say the least but… it is what it is.”</p><p>“So then what would you change? If you woke up tomorrow, and the world was exactly what you wanted, what would it look like?”</p><p>And that is a loaded question if ever he’s heard one.</p><p>
  <em>I would change that first day I saw you in the coffee shop. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I would have kissed you before you became my therapist.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I would not be sitting across from you in a fucking office. I would have you on my lap, in my bed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I would make you mine.</em>
</p><p>He says nothing, just staring at her. At her soft, gentle eyes. The sweet curve of her mouth. Those lips that he imagined being dragged over his body, wrapping around his cock. The skin that would be marked by his mouth.</p><p>Helen shifts under his scrutiny and John feels his hands tightening on the chair he sits in. He wants to surge across the room and take her, like he has wanted so many times before. But he sinks his fingers in, concentrating on his breathing to maintain that control.</p><p>“John?” She asks softly.</p><p>He licks his lips, “I would take things I shouldn’t have.”</p><p>She swallows and her faces flushes.</p><p>“What does that mean, John?”</p><p>Christ, she sounds breathless and John feels his cock tightening, hardening.</p><p>In all their time, he has never lied to her. He’s prevaricated. He’s given her half-truths. He’s evaded left and right but he’s never actually told her a lie.</p><p>He truly doesn’t know how to answer her, his mind running wild with their shared past.</p><p>Her smile. Her trust. Her kindness and gentleness towards him, knowing full well that he was a monster. They warm smell of her skin. The way she breathed when she fell asleep and licked her lips as she slept. The sounds she made when she rolled to her side or her belly.</p><p>He knows the brand of shampoo she uses and the kind of gas she puts in her cheap car.</p><p>He knows the smell of her bedroom and the sharp scent of arousal that permeates the air when she has pleasured herself before falling asleep.</p><p>He can’t, he won’t lose her.</p><p>So he prevaricates. He tells a half-truth. “It means that having a normal life is too far out of reach for me.”</p><p>“A normal life.” She repeats, and the moment passes, “A bit of a loaded statement. What constitutes as normal?”</p><p>John shrugs a shoulder, “I wouldn’t know. But I imagine that I would just be able to live without constant threats looming over. Get some kind of job, or maybe just retire. Settle down.”</p><p>Helen hums, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you verbalize those kinds of desires before.”</p><p>“They’ve always been out of reach.” John admits, “I grew up as an orphan, trained to kill before I even knew what a family was.”</p><p>“Your childhood was substandard, to be sure.” There’s a protective edge to her voice, like she’s almost angry for what he’s gone through. She’s expressed as much before and it always throws him how strongly her empathy shines through. He wonders, idly, if it’s the same for all her patients. He hopes against hope that he is special.</p><p>But probably not.</p><p>“And, for better or for worse, we are a composite of our everything we have ever been through. Now, most people, when confronted with adverse experiences, tend to go four main routes. There are the problem solvers, who try to fix whatever the situation is. Unfortunately, not every situation can be fixed. Not every scar can be healed.”</p><p>A truth John knew all too well.</p><p>Helen wasn’t scarred. Not like he was.</p><p>“Then,” she continues, “There are the people content to sit in their misery. Sometimes it’s done out of depression and hopelessness. Sometimes, it’s easier to just suffer. The devil you know and such.”</p><p><em>I’m the devil you know</em>, John thinks.</p><p>“Then, there’s blatant acceptance. I think this is the route you tend to take. You can’t change your past so, however terrible, you accept it.”</p><p>“Like you said. Not every situation can be fixed.”</p><p>She nods gracefully, her hair falling from behind her ear as she does. She tucks it away and John idly wonders what it would be like to be the person pushing that hair out of her face.</p><p>“I wonder, though,” Helen continues, “What it’s like to try and accept those experiences.”</p><p>Awful, he wants to say. He can remember being slammed into the ground by bigger boys. He can remember what it felt like to be held down and forcibly tattooed with the marks of the Ruska Roma. He remembers the way the cold seemed to start in his hands and reach up his arms as he shivered through nights that were too cold to sleep through.</p><p>He knows better than to say nothing. Helen can be a dog with a bone.</p><p>“It can be trying.” He prevaricates.</p><p>“I can’t begin to imagine.” She says and John resists the urge to say, <em>“good.” </em>Because he never wants her to imagine what he went through. She was too good for that, too pure. “I know that this may seem like an impossible task, but have you ever tried to change the way you see the past, bring it into a positive light?”</p><p>John raises an eyebrow and Helen rolls her eyes, “I know optimism isn’t your strong suit.”</p><p>“You think it’s possible to make all that garbage positive?”</p><p>“Your life isn’t garbage, John.”</p><p><em>That</em> was highly debatable but he didn’t want to waste his limited time with her by arguing. “Enlighten me, then.” John says, “How would reframe my past?”</p><p>Helen rests back in her armchair, ever the picture of perfection. A beacon in the dark, that guided him, but was always out of reach. And she’s watching him, carefully noting movements, and lack thereof.</p><p>“Your past, however awful, gave you the skills you need to survive. It taught you to be independent and strong. It gave you tools like as focus and determination. It taught you to be critical in your thoughts and to never make assumptions. Those awful and traumatic experiences challenged you until you had the power to challenge the world, and yourself.”</p><p>John shifts uncomfortably. She is still looking at him, carefully but scrutinizing.</p><p>“I think you give me too much credit.” He says softly.</p><p>“I don’t. But then, we’ve discussed your issues with self-esteem before.”</p><p>John is grateful for the segue and rolls his eyes, “I don’t have poor self-esteem.”</p><p>“Oh, I agree. You have no self-esteem.”</p><p>They’ve had this argument several times before, especially when Helen tried to get him to identify positive things about himself.</p><p>Apparently, driving a nice car did not count as a personal quality.</p><p>Being an efficient killer opened up a whole other conversation that seemed to concern Helen even more. She found it incredibly troublesome, not that all his positive qualities seemed to be about killing, but that they seemed to be about work.</p><p>Vocational efficacy, she called it. She said it was important to feel secure in one’s employment but accused him of being a workaholic.</p><p>“Except,” she admits, “when it comes to your job.”</p><p>“That’s less self-esteem,” John argues, “And more based in fact.”</p><p>“So, you agree. You have no self-esteem.”</p><p>John takes a sip of his coffee so he doesn’t have to answer.</p><p>“For one of the most educated and brilliant people I know, your entire sense of self is built around your career.”</p><p>His stomach flips at her description and he is forced to remind himself that this isn’t a date or a friendship or any kind of relationship other than <em>therapeutic</em>.</p><p>Helen is his therapist.</p><p>That’s it.</p><p>“My work is my life.” John says softly.</p><p>“Which, though not entirely uncommon, isn’t healthy. So, let me ask you this: who is John Wick when he’s not working?”</p><p>John blinks, unsure of how to answer.</p><p>She continues, “It’s two in the afternoon. You don’t have any contracts. What are you doing?”</p><p>He shrugs a shoulder, “Reading?”</p><p>“Okay. Now it’s two in the morning. You’ve completed your work for the day. What are you doing?”</p><p>And John knows he can’t answer this question honestly because, of late, his early mornings have been spent watching her while she sleeps. And that’s a topic he doesn’t think he’ll ever be willing to address.</p><p>Would she try to refer him if he did, he wonders? If she actually knew how obsessed he had become with her? Probably not. What other therapist could handle his life and disregard the mandates set to therapists to report crimes? But even if she tried, he would never go see another. He could never open up to anyone else the way he had to her.</p><p>He didn’t want to.</p><p>“I don’t get your point.” He says, instead.</p><p>“Self-esteem is built from your sense of identity. Identity is a tricky thing and there are a hundred different schools of thought about what it is and how it’s formed. Typically, most people go to Freud.”</p><p>“The Id, the Ego, and the Superego.”</p><p>“Very good. So, you know that Freud viewed identity as a sort of mesh between our baser desires and our morals. However, I personally believe that, for most people, morality is more abstract that anything. There are things we accept and things we don’t, and nearly everything is subject to shades of gray. Which is why I prefer Erikson’s model.</p><p>“Erikson,” she continues, “believed that there are four aspects of identity: religious, political,<em> vocational</em>,” John smirks, “and sexual. And each of us are made up of a unique combination of all of these. Now, that’s quite simplified. But it’s a good place to start. What are your thoughts on religion, John?”</p><p>He sits back and considers. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t know what his feelings on religion are. Yes, he has two crosses tattooed on his body but those had happened in his early teen years while under the care of the Director.</p><p><em>She</em> had been religious. As had Olga, the lady who ran the orphanage back in Belarus.</p><p>The Bible, he thinks, was the first book he had read.</p><p>It was the only book available to him. One of the older boys had patiently sat with a young Jardani, helping him to recognize letters and sounds in English.</p><p>Still, he wouldn’t describe himself as religious. He had never attended any sort of religious service, nor was he comfortable in claiming or disclaiming any sort of faith.</p><p>“Do you know of Pascal’s Wager?” He asks.</p><p>Helen half-laughs and half-sighs, “You truly are an expert of prevarication.”</p><p>His lips twitch, “I was exposed to religion both in the orphanage and the school. I’ve studied other schools of thought. I’ve never found anything that convinced me of divine truth, one way or the other. Maybe God is real. Maybe not. I’m definitely not smart enough to figure out what people have been debating for thousands of years.”</p><p>“And that’s your stance for all higher powers?”</p><p>John nods.</p><p>Helen hums, “I’m almost afraid to ask about politics.”</p><p>John shrugs to that, “I’ll admit I don’t follow as well as I should and, perhaps would, if I were able to vote.”</p><p>She inclines her head, “Ah. Of course, I knew you’re an immigrant but for whatever reason, I hadn’t pieced that together.”</p><p>Another shrug.</p><p>“Voting aside,” Helen says, “I know for a fact that you’ve read quite a lot on social contract theory and Marxism and other political philosophers.”</p><p>“I suppose, if we’re speaking more broadly, I’d go for Godwin’s model of anarchy.”</p><p>There’s a pause, a moment, that stretches and then Helen looks away, smiling widely, looking as if she is trying to withhold a laugh.</p><p>“I have to say, sessions with you are <em>never</em> boring, John.” She dazzles him with that smile and he tries to catch his breath, “Forgive my ignorance, but I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Godwin’s model of anarchy. Would you mind educating me?”</p><p>He inclines his head, “He believed government to be an evil and claimed that humans are individually wise enough to handle themselves. That government, by it’s very nature, imposes morality of the elite onto all people.”</p><p>“And he didn’t think anarchy would be chaotic?”</p><p>“No. He thought it would be a form of utopia. Where the individual mastered themselves.”</p><p>“An intriguing concept. I’ll have to read more on him later. Now, while I suspect I know the answer, what are your thoughts on vocation?”</p><p>John takes a moment to digest the loaded question. His immediate answer would be to shrug and say, “It’s a living.” But he already knows what Helen would say to that. <em>You’ve already made a living, a hundred times over.</em> With another, he might be able to get away with a lie about doing it for the money. But Helen knew him too well. <em>The money you don’t use, John?</em></p><p>The Underworld, for all its rules and chaos, gives him a sense of purpose.</p><p>A stupid one, perhaps. But who would he be without it?</p><p>“It gives me a reason to get out of bed.” He says softly, “I don’t like it, nor do I dislike what I do. But, there’s always another contract. Killing people… it kills time.”</p><p>“But there are only so many contracts on a given day. Only so much planning that can go into what you do.” Helen says, just as softly, “Only so much purpose you can derive from something that brings you no raw emotions.”</p><p>“I know. I—” He pauses. “Sometimes, I think back on my life. On all the times I tried to run from this world, just to find myself pulled back.”</p><p>“You were only a teenager when you first tried to run.” She recalls.</p><p>“And I watched the home that I found be burned to the ground. And I was forced back into the Underworld by necessity. And when I made enough money to get papers, to get out… I wasn’t prepared for the life I had chosen.”</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “Are you referring to your time in the Marines?”</p><p>John nods, once.</p><p>“You don’t talk about it often.”</p><p>“Nothing to talk about.” John says, “It was the same as the life I live now, except I had to work with others.”</p><p>“You’re not what I’d call a team player.”</p><p>He shakes his head and his lips twitch, “No. No one complained, because I got stuff done but… I wasn’t made for that.”</p><p>“The social aspects of the military or taking orders?”</p><p>John snorts, “Both.”</p><p>Helen hums, “So assassinating gives you the stability you crave, in the environment that best suits you, as well as the ability to work on your own terms. All things you were never able to obtain in your childhood.”</p><p>John blinks as Helen succinctly brings his words back into a clear picture. <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>The stability he had lacked, being shuffled around as an orphan. The ability to be on his own after growing up between a crowded orphanage and an even more crowded school for killers. And control over what he did, after years of taking orders.</p><p>John rubs at his head, “I guess so.”</p><p>Fuck. This was what Helen did to him. Made the whole world shift from its axis as she came in and made sense of all the chaos.</p><p>She gives him a moment to process this, watching him carefully. “What are you thinking, John?”</p><p>He’s not even sure he can put it into words. There’s a sense of gratefulness but it is dim compared to the overwhelming adoration that fills him just by being in her presence. But even among that golden glow of adoration is the well of hopelessness that exists between them.</p><p>John has no doubt that Helen cares for him.</p><p>But she is his therapist.</p><p>She has boundaries.</p><p>She is untouchable.</p><p>Despair, for what he can never have, crushes him. The dark and agonizing reality that, for the first time in his miserable life, someone cares for him, someone <em>understands </em>him… but it’s someone who he can never have.</p><p>Cruel irony of ironies.</p><p>And amidst all that, she asks him what he’s thinking?</p><p>He has no answer that can begin to cover the wealth of emotion that freely flows through him. She undid his walls but left the flood inside with nowhere to go.</p><p>And he loves her.</p><p>But he cannot say that.</p><p>So instead, John shakes his head softly, “Just amazing how you can piece together things that have eluded me for years.”</p><p>She gives him a kind smile, “You’re too close to the puzzle. You can’t see the big picture.”</p><p>“Still.”</p><p>“You’re incredibly hard on yourself.”</p><p>“Do you have a theory on that?” He asks returning the smile she sends him.</p><p>“Oh, several. But I’d rather hear your thoughts.”</p><p>Too late, he almost tells her. She’s become the little voice inside of his head. He can hear her even when she isn’t there, whispering and analyzing away in his mind.</p><p>“I suppose that I’ve always found myself around people who a hard and unyielding. I’m sure getting the shit beat out of me as a kid whenever I did something wrong didn’t help either.”</p><p>There’s a flash in her eyes that he’s seen before, when disclosing about the rockier parts of his childhood. That protective nature of her surging through, just as it did the day she found him in that café. He’s torn between comforted that <em>thank fuck, somebody cares </em>and a wave of uneasiness that she knows just how low he has been.</p><p>But even as he thinks it, there’s her voice again, challenging and reframing. <em>How far you have risen</em>.</p><p>“I’m sure that’s a major part of it.” Helen says, “As children, we learn from the examples of our prominent caregivers. Abuse leaves its mark.”</p><p>John knows that better than anyone. Tattoos given in a back room before he was ten, white marks on his back from where he had been whipped. Countless scars from close calls with death.</p><p>He’s marked.</p><p>He’s broken.</p><p>Too marked, too broken.</p><p>She says he has no self-esteem, and fuck, she is <em>right. </em>He really doesn’t.</p><p>And, because she’s Helen and can practically read his mind, she adds, “It’s okay to be marked, John. It doesn’t change who you are.”</p><p>That’s the problem, though. He still isn’t entirely sure who he is.</p><p>“Now, the final piece of identity, in Erikson’s perspective, is sex.” Helen says, completely unaffected, “What are your thoughts on sex, John?”</p><p>An alarm bell rings loudly in his head.</p><p> Fuck. She had vaguely mentioned sex earlier but, caught up in other topics, it hadn’t clicked in his head that she would ask.</p><p>This is a subject he cannot talk to <em>anyone </em>about, least of all to Helen.</p><p>He opens his mouth and then immediately closes it.</p><p>Because sexual attraction… it’s not quite a thing for John Wick. He can acknowledge beauty. He can take note of what is considered conventionally attractive and what is not. But sex was always something that eluded him. Something he didn’t understand.</p><p>Of course, his body still had natural reactions. He just didn’t feel any sort of urge to act with another when he could take care of the situation far more quickly and efficiently.</p><p>And then came Helen.</p><p>Helen had awoken something in him that John had once deemed absent.</p><p>He found her pretty the first day in the café.</p><p>He thought her delightful after their first session and, one month in and John had thought her <em>perfect</em>.</p><p>Not long after that, she had worn a form-fitting sundress with a white top and a blue skirt with daisies on the day of his session. It reached her calves but curved to her body in ways that should have been illegal. Her hair had been down in loose waves, and all at once, it hit John like a freight train.</p><p>Desire, plain and simple, coursing through him. Foreign and uncomfortable and altogether overwhelming. How did people live like this? He had wondered.</p><p>Desire morphed to obsession to something far deeper.</p><p>He can’t talk to her about sex because she is his every fantasy. When he holds himself in hand, he is thinking of her face, her smile, the sounds she makes in her sleep…</p><p>So instead, he shakes his head, “I, uh… no. No.”</p><p>“No?” she repeats.</p><p>John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking down because he cannot possibly bring himself to look at her.</p><p>“I <em>cannot</em> talk to you about this.”</p><p>“John,” she says, and there’s a note of humor in her voice, “You can look me in the eye and chat about your methods for killing people, but me asking you about your thoughts on sex has you flustered?”</p><p>“Yes!”</p><p>A giggle escapes her.</p><p>“Are you laughing at me?” He asks incredulously.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” She says, covering her smile with her hand, “I just never took you for sexually conservative.”</p><p>“I’m not sexually conservative!”</p><p>“You’re just flustered by the subject of sex?”</p><p>“I don’t think it’s something that needs talking about.”</p><p>“Ever?”</p><p>“Yes. No. I think people should be able to do whatever they want but I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p>And, thankfully, Helen takes pity on him. “Alright. If it makes you that uncomfortable, we can leave it there for now.”</p><p><em>We can leave it there forever, </em>John thinks, but he nods just the same.</p><p>By then, their session is almost up. Usually, John dreads the moment of goodbye. It means a week before she will look at him or speak to him but, right now, he thinks he needs a week before he can speak to her.</p><p>“Same time next week?” She asks as he stands.</p><p>“Of course.” He replies, waiting as she packs up her laptop and notebook for the weekend.</p><p>“You’ll be careful out there?” And it warms his heart that, after months and months, she still asks him that. It’s strange, and unnerving, to know that if something went wrong, if he somehow was to be killed, someone would miss him, even a little bit.</p><p>“I will.” He promises, because he does have something to live for. Even if it’s only an hour a week.</p><p>She offers him a smile as he walks her to her car.</p><p>In a different world, one where she belonged to him the same way he had become hers, he would buy her a new one. A better car.</p><p>“See you soon.” She tells him before getting in her car.</p><p>He echoes her, watching her drive away before he goes to his own car.</p><p>It’s five. Which means he has about six hours to kill before Helen goes to bed.</p><p>He sits in his car and rubs his head. He feels off, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. Helen always manages to throw him off his game, and he credits the strange feeling to that fact. He shakes his head clear of it and sets a course for the Continental.</p><p>And as he does, John begins to count down the hours until next week.</p><p>….</p><p>“Status?” A voice growls out over the phone.</p><p>A man sits at the far end of a parking lot, his phone tucked away between the pages of a book so any passerby would mistake him for reading while he waits. He says, “They’re going in separate directions.”</p><p>“Follow the girl. I want a report on her routines by Tuesday. And if Wick shows up, alert me immediately.”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is a work of fiction. In no counseling relationship should the boundaries between therapist and client be crossed as such.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I'll try to talk refined (for fear that you'll find out how I'm imagining you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John Wick had a problem.</p><p>Helen would tell him he had <em>many problems</em>.</p><p>But for now, he was concentrating on one. What had started as weekly tradition of breaking into his therapist’s home had quickly increased to every day he was in New York. Then he was making excuses to run into the city so that he could watch her sleep. And now… it had been more than a week since John spent a night in his own bed.</p><p>In the early hours of the morning, John would either make his way to the Continental or home, where he would shower and sleep, confident in the knowledge that Helen was at her office. He would work, or find something to occupy his waking hours, until the clock struck eleven. And then he would, inevitably, find his way back to her.</p><p>His obsession with his therapist was getting out of hand.</p><p>But he couldn’t resist. He craved the very sight of her. It was like his body hummed with frustration and anxiety whenever she was out of his sight, only to be eased by the image of her in bed, the smell of her lotion, the soft sighs that escaped her as she shifted in her sleep.</p><p>It was a problem.</p><p>But he couldn’t bear to stop.</p><p>And unlike his other problems, he couldn’t just talk to Helen. The idea was laughable.</p><p>He can picture it now, as he sits in the parking lot outside her office:</p><p>
  <em>“What would you like to talk about today, John?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Well, I can no longer go twenty-four hours without being in your presence, except, we only meet once a week, so the other six days, I break into your house and watch you sleep.”</em>
</p><p>Yeah. That’s not happening.</p><p>He stares at the clock on the dashboard, watching the minutes slowly dance by until he can see her. At 3:50, he watches her previous client leave the building and the remaining five minutes creep by. By 3:54, he’s had enough. He turns off his idling car and heads into the building, no longer caring about how it looks to arrive so early to a session.</p><p>Her door is open, as usual, and she is standing over her desk, leaning over so she can type on her laptop. Her seldom-seen glasses are perched on her nose as she does, and John has to stop the barrage of thoughts that come from seeing her in such a position.</p><p>Her sweater dress could so easily be pushed up her thighs and…</p><p>No. Entertaining these thoughts is doing nothing to help him and every day, he feels himself slip more and more into his obsession.</p><p>“Come in, John.” She says, only then glancing up from the screen. “How was your day?”</p><p>“Alright.” He says, and Helen closes the laptop and takes off her glasses. A pity, he thinks. She really is so pretty in those glasses.</p><p>She grabs a Keurig pod from the basket over her desk before checking, “Planning for a late night?”</p><p>Always, now, he thinks. John nods and Helen slips it into the coffee maker and quickly turns it on.</p><p>“Oh! Before we start, can I ask a favor? I need to use your body.” He nearly chokes at her phrasing but immediately relaxes as she points to the air conditioner in her window. “I tried to take it out earlier and I saw my life flash before my eyes.”</p><p>John glances at her outfit. “In heels?”</p><p>She sends him a half-hearted glare. “Honestly, I didn’t even think about it before I came in today. But I heard on the radio that we’re supposed to get a frost this weekend. Usually I’d ask Mike, the building super, but he’s not answering his phone.”</p><p>“No problem.” John says, slipping out of his suit jacket and laying it on the chair. “Where does it go?”</p><p>“The floor is fine; I just want it out.”</p><p>He gives her a look and repeats himself, something he would never do for anyone else in the world, “Where does it go?”</p><p>Helen rolls her eyes good-naturedly, “There’s a storage closet down the hall.”</p><p>It’s already unplugged so John tucks away the wire and lifts the window off the machine. “Hold the door.” John tells her as he tugs the unit free of the window. It occurs to him how easily an air conditioner, if properly timed, could be used to make a murder look like an accident. A push at the right moment and a crushing death for whoever awaited below…</p><p>He follows Helen into the hall and down to where the closet. She quickly unlocks the door and points to the metal shelves where it goes.</p><p>He sets it down gently on the shelf, “Good to go.” He says, straightening his vest.</p><p>“You’re the best.” Helen tells him.</p><p>“Next time,” John says, “Just call me. I’m usually in New York. No near-death experiences with air conditioners. It might be… difficult” <em>impossible</em> “to find a new therapist.”</p><p>Helen smacks him on the arm as they walk back to the office, “You’re ridiculous.”</p><p>He inclines his head as they slip back in. Helen finds a cover for the coffee, which has finished brewing, and hands it off to John.</p><p>“What have you been up to this week?”</p><p>
  <em>Killing, stalking, and watching you sleep.</em>
</p><p>“Nothing new.” He answers, taking a sip of the coffee as he finds his seat.</p><p>“Did you have many cases this week?”</p><p>
  <em>I took extra so that I would be in New York, just so I had an excuse to check on you.</em>
</p><p>“A few. Nothing too extreme.”</p><p>“I’m almost afraid to ask for your definition of extreme.”</p><p>His lips twitch.</p><p>“Have you given much thought to what we discussed last week?”</p><p>“Which part?”</p><p>“Your identity. The age-old question that we all must ask of ourselves: who am I?”</p><p>Of course, he has. He is now fluent in Erikson’s model, killing the daylight hours with reading things she referenced. Taking delight in the fact that, after his mention of Godwin, he had found the anarchist’s texts on her bedside table.</p><p>A silent exchange.</p><p>Neither of them will address it but he knows that it has happened. That she cares, in whatever way she does. And he loves her for it.</p><p>“A bit.”</p><p>“And what did you think about?”</p><p>John sinks back into his chair, “My house.”</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “Oh?”</p><p>“It’s, uh… it’s a nice house, a nice property but it’s just a house.”</p><p>“It’s not a home?” She asks, trying to clarify his meaning.</p><p>And John nods. “If you were to walk through it,” <em>ah, what a thought, </em>“you probably wouldn’t be able to tell it was mine. I still have the furnishings and the art that came with it. And I don’t have a lot of… stuff. Aside from my clothes, and my books, there’s nothing really there that’s <em>mine</em>.”</p><p>“Possessions don’t always reflect personality.”</p><p>He thinks about her home. The throw cushion on her couch that says <em>choose happy</em> and the fleece blanket she wraps up in while watching television that’s covered in daisies. The potted plants that advertise the presence of a nurturer, the pictures taken with her friends. There is framed artwork on her walls that seem to highlight her softness.</p><p>He thinks of Aurelio’s place, littered with spare car parts. John had once gone to sit on Aurelio’s couch only to land on a steering wheel. There were pictures of his family. A neon sign that Aurelio claimed to have stolen from a pub in Queens. Old magazines on his kitchen table, beer bottles piled next to an overflowing recycling.</p><p>Even Winston, who John regarded as a fairly private person, displayed a collection of old chess sets. He proudly put a collection of knives under a glass that he claimed belonged to the third Elder. While there were no pictures of friends or family, he had a taste of the extremes. Large leather couches and glass tables. A collection of top-shelf liquors sat next to an antique globe.</p><p>“That’s true,” He says, “But I see other people’s homes and spaces, and they almost seem to belong to them. And mine is as empty as a hotel room.” John pauses in thought, “I’m well aware that my personality is… bland but—”</p><p>Helen cuts him off, “Bland?” She repeats, amusement etched onto her pretty face.</p><p>John shrugs, “I was recently compared to a block of wood.”</p><p>“By who?” Now, there is disbelief in her voice.</p><p>“Santino. One of my,” he cannot think of a better word, “colleagues.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes, “Well, I expect that you tend to close off around your,” she uses quotations, “’<em>colleagues</em>’.”</p><p>John opens a hand in <em>well, what are you gonna do</em> kind of way. “It’s hard to trust trained killers. The less they know about me, the better off I am.”</p><p>“We’re going to circle around to that.” Helen tells him, “But I do want to try to understand your thoughts surrounding your home.”</p><p>He isn’t quite sure what to say, “I don’t know. I suppose I have a tendency towards utilitarianism.”</p><p>Helen is nodding, thoughtfully. “Yet, you’re far past the time in your life when you weren’t able to afford the things you want. Which makes me think that it’s a choice you’ve made, to leave your own space barren.”</p><p>“I’ve considered as much.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>John shrugs, “I’ve come to several conclusions but no real answers.”</p><p>“Tell me.”</p><p>“The first, is the most obvious. I grew up without having anything that was <em>mine</em>. I shared blankets, when we had them. Food. Clothing. I learned to live without superfluous things.”</p><p>She considers that, “A possibility, and certainly a contributor, but many people who grew up in poverty who, for lack of a better term, rise above their circumstances do the opposite. They buy everything they were never able to have as children.”</p><p>“If there’s something that I want, I’d get it. There’s just nothing that I want.” <em>Except for what I can’t have</em>, he thinks.</p><p>“When was the last time you bought yourself a little luxury? Nothing related to clothes or food or hygiene. Nothing for work. Just something for you?”</p><p>He bought himself several books on and by Erikson, the psychologist she had referenced the week before, but he doesn’t want to tell her that. And, now that he thinks of it, his last several purchases were books she had either mentioned, or he had seen on her bedside table and picked up for himself. Just in case it ever came up in conversation. </p><p>“Just books.” He tells her. “A few months ago, I bought a new coffee machine. Does that count?”</p><p>She smirks, “I would consider coffee a necessity.”</p><p>He grins back, “I’m sure you would.”</p><p>“So, nihilism aside…” John snorts at that assessment, but Helen continues, “You said you had other theories?”</p><p>John nods, “I also have to consider my Romani heritage. Even the orphanage moved around a lot. Nothing was permanent, until I got to New York. And then, I ran away. And then I was in the military, where we weren’t exactly able to bring things with us. Maybe I just can’t put stock into the idea of permanence.”</p><p>Helen seems to sigh, quietly. Empathy burns in her eyes and John can feel it, in turn, burning into him. He’s not quite sure how to deal with it.</p><p>Helen offers him a smile and it’s weighted in emotion as she teases, “Keep making connections like that and I’ll start to think you don’t need me anymore.”</p><p>“I’ll always need you.” It slips from him before he has a moment to think better of it.</p><p>A moment passes, his words lingering in the air and John hopes against hope that she can’t see just how enamored with her he is.</p><p>He desperately tries to think of something to say to fill the silence, to take back his words without taking away the meaning behind them.</p><p>“Good.” Helen says softly and, just like that, it’s over. “Now, going off of that idea of permanence, I wonder how much of it is habit, like you were saying, and how much of it might be a reflection of the loss you’ve gone through?”</p><p>“My experiences have conditioned me for loss?” He interprets.</p><p>And Helen shrugs, “Haven’t they?”</p><p>John thinks back. The Romani had kept him alive as a child, but they had shipped him off without so much as a goodbye. And while New York had been an improvement, there was still nothing that was his save a stolen Bible. He had left it behind when he ran away to Mexico.</p><p>In Mexico, he had shelter. He was a child, but he still had his own tiny place carved out in the world. His own blanket, his own clothes. A worn copy of <em>1984</em> that he had stolen from a passenger on the train. It had all been burnt when his village had been razed, leaving him only with the clothes on his back.</p><p>The years that followed weren’t much better. He was forced back into the Underworld and while it was far from perfect, he preferred the freedom of it rather than being forced into social services. Being forced to make up some kind of lie to protect his Romani brethren. No, the Underworld was not perfect, but it was all he knew.</p><p>He was paid terribly because they <em>could </em>pay him terribly. He was given shit jobs but he took them so he could eat. And once he started growing, he needed new clothes. Over the course of two years, he grew a foot.</p><p>When he finally escaped that world again, he took only what he could carry with him. A small duffle full of clothes, a spare pair of shoes, and two knives that didn’t fit on his person.</p><p>When he joined the army, he didn’t take anything with him aside from a single book.</p><p>And it wasn’t until years later, when he decided enough was enough, and rejoined the fold that he had the ability to settle down.</p><p>“I can understand why that may be a part of it.” John admits, “But I think, mostly, it comes down to the fact that I just don’t care about most things.”</p><p>“Once again, nihilism makes an entrance.”</p><p>John shrugs, “I have more money than I ever dreamed of. And permanence doesn’t matter when I could afford to buy things a thousand times over. The only priceless possessions I have, I keep in my car. Just in case.”</p><p>She seems to brighten at that, leaning forward with interest, “And what does John Wick consider to be priceless?”</p><p>Not much, he thinks.</p><p>Her business card, which she had given him that first day in the café, with her cell phone number etched on the back. He keeps it tucked away in an envelope and locked in his glovebox.</p><p>A revolver gifted to him by Marcus. The only present he had ever been given without an expectation of reciprocation.</p><p>The copy of <em>Walden</em> he had taken from the little library at the military base where he trained. His only constant companion through three tours of duty.</p><p>He decides not to mention the first. “A gun given to me by an old friend. And a copy of <em>Walden.</em>”</p><p>“Thoreau.”</p><p>John nods.</p><p>Helen sits back, “I don’t associate you much with a love for nature. Is it the isolation aspect that attracts you, the civil disobedience piece, or that idea of self-reliance?”</p><p>“I would say all of it, although the self-reliance was what first pulled me in. It…” He hesitates, unsure of why he feels the need to share such a little thing with her, “It was the only possession I brought with me everywhere when I was in the army. And when I returned home.”</p><p>“It really stayed with you.”</p><p>John nods, “I suppose, it helped me learn to think a bit more critically. To challenge the automatic assumptions that came with growing up in the Underworld.”</p><p>“I imagine there was a sort of irony about reading such a text while in the military.”</p><p>He can’t stop the smile that crosses his lips. He doesn’t have to explain his bizarre humor or reasoning to Helen. She just <em>gets </em>it. “I’ll admit, that was part of the charm. Imposing those shades of grey into my life that were absent in the Underworld and, again, missing from the marines.”</p><p>She smiles back, “You pursue that duality in life. Toeing the line of arbitrary rules and ethics, while simultaneously embracing the meaninglessness.”</p><p>“Nihilism and Walden have been my constant companions.”</p><p>“Let’s add absurdism there for good measure.” She jokes and John finds himself laughing. Something he only does in her presence.  </p><p>He loves her. He loves her. He loves her.</p><p>He knows it, he feels it so deeply within him, but he can’t act on it. He won’t.</p><p>He knows she deserves so much better than him.</p><p>“Alright, back on topic.” Helen says with a small smile, “You said something last week that I’ve been considering in relation to this discussion.”</p><p>Grateful for the segue, John asks, “Oh?”</p><p>She nods, “You were talking about the idea of <em>a normal life</em>. A life away from the Underworld that you wanted, or at least considered, but identified as being out of reach.”</p><p>John nods back.</p><p>“I wonder, and please feel free to tell me if I’m off the mark, if those desires intersect with your decision to keep your house bare?”</p><p>He blinks, taking in her meaning.</p><p>His house is empty, in more ways than one. Just him and he doesn’t need anything. And the things he wants, well, he can’t have them. So why bother to fill his house with things that don’t matter? Why fill his house with trinkets when they’ll only serve to remind him of himself? Of the life he lives alone.</p><p>And John swears, “Fuck.”</p><p>Helen waits, in silence, as she always does while John works through his thoughts.</p><p>She’s right, to a degree, but it’s deeper than that.</p><p>He wonders if she realizes how much more it is. If she was truly asking him a question or manipulating him into figuring out for herself what she already suspected.</p><p>She was good at that. At breaking him down in ways that thousands of assassins never could figure out. He’d survived hundreds of attempts on his life but one question from Helen and he was ready to fall to his knees.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Minutes pass before Helen asks, “John?”</p><p>He swallows heavily, “I hate it when you’re right sometimes.”</p><p>“Epiphany?”</p><p>“Epiphany.” He echoes, “I think…” He hesitates.</p><p>She was right. Both today and last week, she had pinpointed the cause.</p><p>
  <em>“I think you give me too much credit.” He had said softly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t. But then, we’ve discussed your issues with self-esteem before.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>John rolled his eyes, “I don’t have poor self-esteem.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, I agree. You have no self-esteem.”</em>
</p><p>Self-esteem just didn’t seem like an important thing. His reflective thoughts about himself didn’t affect his ability to work or to kill or to function.</p><p>And so, he had written them off as unimportant. Whereas Helen had been telling him, for weeks it seemed, that his sense of self mattered.</p><p>He tries not to look at her. He doesn’t need to look to know that she is staring at him kindly, non-judgmentally. Ready to listen and offer comfort.</p><p>“It’s okay, John.” She says softly, “You know you can say anything here.”</p><p>Anything, he thinks, except the words he swallows back every night.</p><p>He lets out a breath, “You’re right. About the self-esteem thing.”</p><p>She nods once, waiting for him to continue.</p><p>“I… don’t understand it, fully. I don’t get why it matters how I see myself but, I guess it does. At the end of the day, I don’t deserve a normal life. And I don’t deserve the things that come with it. Even if the things are just small tokens of normalcy.”</p><p>A moment passes that feels like an eternity to John.</p><p>“I want you to know, I’m unbelievably proud of you right now.”</p><p>He doesn’t want to look at her after that confession, but her words force him to raise his head in stunned disbelief. She can’t be serious…</p><p>But she’s staring at him in earnest, smiling softly, looking at him with kindness and gentleness and yes, with pride. She’s looking at him with pride in her eyes and he can’t quite figure out why.</p><p>And, as if she can sense his confusion, she adds, “You’ve been coming here for seven months and, for most of that time, you’ve been fairly resistant to actually being vulnerable.”</p><p>“I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone.” John argues.</p><p>“I know. And I appreciate your trust in me. But there’s a difference between trusting me with legalities and learning to trust yourself enough to admit to these feelings. You’ve been sitting on these emotions for the better part of your life, John. Keeping them hidden or ignoring them. We joke about your nihilism when I think we both know that it’s easier to pretend nothing matters when we start to feel things too heavily.”</p><p>He sits with that.</p><p>God, is that what he’s been doing?</p><p>Ignoring his own self-hatred by ignoring anything that has to do with himself?</p><p>Filling his free time with work to keep him busy or reading, filling his mind with rationality and bullshit intellectualism rather than dealing with the emotions that linger below the surface?</p><p>But what else was he supposed to do?</p><p>Emotions were ignored most of his childhood, when fighting for survival was the precedent. And he just never learned.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Helen assesses him carefully, “What are you thinking, John?”</p><p>He’s not even entirely sure what he’s thinking but he settles on, “Life seemed simpler when my only focus was survival.”</p><p>She nods, thoughtfully, “I’m sure it did. Thought some people might argue that emotions offer a lot of evolutionary benefits.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Well, anxiety warns us when we might be in danger. Anger helps us to protect ourselves. Sadness can help us to process complex events. Happiness and joy help us bond and create social alliances.”</p><p>She lets him mull that over before adding, “Your emotions are as much of a tool as your eyes and ears looking and listening for potential enemies.”</p><p>He considers that, too.</p><p>He gets her point. He really does, but his eyes and ears have never fucked with him the way his emotions did.</p><p>“I think it comes down to control.” He says thoughtfully.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I can close my eyes. I can choose not to listen. But my emotions…”</p><p>“You can’t shut them off. And ignoring only works for so long.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Helen nods, “Our emotions are, arguably, one of the most complicated things to understand. And you’re right, they are one of the hardest things to control and while there are ways to change our thinking and challenge our automatic thoughts, we often can’t help what we feel.”</p><p>John knew that well.</p><p>He couldn’t help the hopelessness and the loneliness he experienced as a child.</p><p>He couldn’t help the intense anger at watching his first real home be burned to the ground.</p><p>He couldn’t help the contempt he felt for himself whenever he looked to deep inside himself.</p><p>And he certainly couldn’t help the intense obsession and other unnamable emotions that arose in him whenever he thought about Helen.</p><p>It wasn’t like he had tried to change any of it, though.</p><p>“Sometimes,” he admits softly, “I think that I force myself to feel the bad emotions. To force myself to suffer.”</p><p>Again, she nods, “Earlier you used the term <em>deserve</em>.”</p><p>“I don’t deserve anything.”</p><p>Fuck, did he really just say that? Out loud? To her?</p><p>He probably sounded like a whiny teenager. But Helen doesn’t look at him with annoyance or contempt.</p><p>She just inclines her head, “You know, I have a lot of clients who come in here and use the same language. I deserve this. I don’t deserve that.”</p><p>“I doubt most of your other client have killed people.”</p><p>In fact, he knows they haven’t. He had a background check run for every single person on her caseload to make sure she was safe in the hour she spent with them each week.</p><p>Helen, however, ignores him. “For most, it’s based on the Just World Theory. A sort of westernized karma that subscribes to the idea that the world is a fair place. And I know that you know, more than most, that this world is not a fair place.”</p><p>“No.” He agrees. “It’s not.”</p><p>Helen shakes her head, “We often bestow judgement. Upon ourselves, the people around us. Total strangers, even. And I’m as guilty as it as anyone,” he doubts that but she continues, “But you know what?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>She shrugs a shoulder, “Doesn’t do a damn thing, offering judgement. It doesn’t change our past, our future. It doesn’t help us.” Her tone softens, “I know it’s not my place to offer an opinion…”</p><p>John shakes his head, “You know I value your thoughts.”</p><p>“I don’t know if God exists or if there’s a higher power. But I do know that we don’t get to decide who deserves what. We get dealt our hand and we do the best we can with it. And the more we fight that, the more we tell ourselves that we deserve better or worse, the more miserable we make ourselves.”</p><p>He hears her.</p><p>And he gets her point, he really does.</p><p>It’s not his position to make judgements. He doesn’t have a say in the twists and turns of luck that have amassed him a great wealth.</p><p>But it must be wrong because his most glaring example is looking into his eyes. He’s certain that he and Helen are not the same.</p><p>Helen is good, and kind, and gentle.</p><p>And John is harsh, and dark, and <em>bad</em>.</p><p>He’s not sure he can accept a world that views them on an equal playing field.</p><p>“You don’t have to believe me.” She tells him, her voice soft and understanding. He wonders, not for the first time, if she can read his mind. “But just consider it, okay?”</p><p>
  <strong>…..</strong>
</p><p>He considers it. He spends the rest of the day considering it.</p><p>At the Continental, eating dinner, John found himself trying to challenge his automatic assumptions about the people around him.</p><p>Assassins, killers.</p><p>But did he really know anything else about them? Beyond rumors and hushed whispers? The same kind that followed him, that had turned John Wick into the Boogeyman.</p><p>He ponders her words: <em>the more we tell ourselves that we deserve better or worse, the more miserable we make ourselves</em>.</p><p>He was an expert at misery.</p><p>At best, he was a master of apathy. Hiding his misery under layers of not-caring. Like she said, it was easier to pretend that nothing mattered. It was easier to accept the self-hatred, or at the very least self-contempt, when he could just shrug it off.</p><p>Idly, he wonders what would happen if he just continues to ignore it.</p><p>Even as he thinks it, however, he knows it’s ridiculous. Helen could sit there and berate him for an hour each week and he’d still sit there happily.</p><p>With that thought in mind, he paid for his dinner and left the Continental. Tomorrow, he’ll come back in the early morning. Nap for a bit, then take a contract or two.</p><p>He wonders if it’s his obsession with Helen that will keep him in New York or his aversion to returning to his empty home after having <em>that </em>conversation. Neither seems to be a particularly healthy choice but he accepts it nonetheless.</p><p>He drives to her house and tries not to think of it as <em>home</em>.</p><p>He knows that something is wrong the moment he sees the house.</p><p>Helen is energy conscious. She rarely leaves a room without turning out the light. And right now, it is past her bedtime and the kitchen light is on.</p><p>He stops the car for a moment, just outside of her house, wondering if he’ll see a shadow move. Maybe he’s being paranoid. Maybe she just got up for water.</p><p>But nothing moves.</p><p>John throws the car in park. Normally, he’d hide the car a few blocks down and walk back to her house, but he doesn’t care. Quickly, he unlatches the glovebox to pull out his gun. He doesn’t even check it as he hurries out of his car.</p><p>The door is shut but the lock has been picked open. And not by him. No, whoever had done this didn’t have the skill to leave no marks in the metal. It was a rough, haggard job. And it was left unlocked.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He opens the door, gun-raised.</p><p>His head seems to be screaming a chorus of <em>no, no, no, no, no, no</em> as he clears the kitchen. He should clear the entire first floor, but his fear is outweighing his senses.</p><p><em>Emotional mind</em> Helen would call it.</p><p>Her bed is empty but slept in. It wasn’t made and it looked as though she had thrashed about.</p><p>Someone had taken her from her bed.</p><p>He was shaking.</p><p>John was unsure if it was rage or fear that was pounding through him right now, but someone was going to pay.</p><p>A phone rings and it takes John a moment to recognize it as his own.</p><p>The screen has her name. Her work cell.</p><p>John accepts the call and puts the phone to his ear.</p><p>“Hello, John.” The voice is male. He doesn’t recognize it but there is a slight accent that he can’t quite place.</p><p>“Where is she?” He asks trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.</p><p>“Safe. For now.”</p><p>“Put her on the phone.”</p><p>“I’m afraid Miss Kingston has been sedated for the time being.”</p><p>“If you’ve hurt her…”</p><p>“I believe that now is not the time for you to be making threats.” His unknown opponent interrupts.</p><p>John tries to control himself. He can’t act until he knows more. The disgust pours from his voice as he forces himself to ask, “What do you want?”</p><p>“Very good.”</p><p>John closes his eyes and tries to focus on what it will feel like when he guts this man alive.</p><p>“Lorenzo D’Antonio will be in New York from tomorrow night through Friday.”</p><p>John can already tell where this is going. Lorenzo D’Antonio was the Camorra’s current leader. He held a seat at the High Table which made him virtually untouchable. No contract could be taken out against him or the Continental, and the High Table, would respond with force. To be caught even conspiring was to be dead.</p><p>“And you want him killed.” John finished.</p><p>“Not just Lorenzo. His heirs, as well.”</p><p>John let out a noise of disbelief. With Lorenzo dead, followed by his children, the Camorra would collapse.</p><p>Christ.</p><p>John had never given a flying fuck about Continental politics. He followed their rules to gain their services but this…</p><p>“And you’ll let her go?”</p><p>“Right into your waiting arms.” The man taunted.</p><p>John felt his nails digging into his palm as he struggled to maintain what little control he had left. “I want proof that she’s all right.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>The line drops.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is the Manager in?”</p><p>“The Manager is always in.” Charon responds as he always does, blinking at the sight of John Wick. When he had left the Continental, less than an hour ago, he seemed calm and resigned. Now, he appeared frazzled, although there were no apparent marks or injuries bruising the assassin. “He retired to his private chambers—”</p><p>John Wick nodded and set a handful of coins on the counter that he had taken from the trunk of his car. “I need a room—no accommodations, just standard mission prep.”</p><p>The mission prep rooms were used more for local assassins. They came equipped with top of the line technology, as well as space for maps and guides, weapons assembly and cleaning.</p><p>“I also need the Technician sent to the room immediately. I need a phone traced <em>yesterday</em>.”</p><p>“I’ll make sure to send him to your room once he’s finished with—”</p><p>John cuts off Charon. He’ll apologize later, he decides, but there isn’t fucking <em>time</em>. “I’m calling in Sante Fe. I need him <em>now</em>.”</p><p>Charon blinks, surprise evident on his face, but he nods. “Of course, Mister Wick.” He reaches back and grabs a lower key off a hook and hands it over, “Shall I direct the Manager to your room?”</p><p>“Please. And the Sommelier.” John grabs the key and departs, taking long strides down the hall.</p><p> John rarely used the rooms set for mission prep unless he was on a time sensitive case that didn't allow for trips back and forth over the river. He unlocked the room and stared at the expanse.</p><p>There was much to do but nothing that he could start until he got a trace on her phone. He doubted this new enemy would make things easy for him. They probably already had the signal blocked but he had to try. The only other hope was that Winston would know something. The Manager had an ear to the ground in every part of New York City.</p><p>John tosses the key to one of the tables and starts pacing.</p><p>Whoever wanted Lorenzo and the D’Antonio siblings killed would benefit from the Camorra collapsing. Of course, that included everyone the Camorra held something over, lesser Italian mobs, and the other eleven assholes who held seats at the High Table.</p><p>Bullshit politics, he thinks.</p><p>Somebody had followed him, watched him to analyze his weaknesses. And they had taken Helen over <em>bullshit politics.</em></p><p>John grabs the chair that sits in front of one of the tables and throws it across the room. The wall cracks under the weight before the chair snaps into a handful of pieces.</p><p>“That was an antique, Jonathan.”</p><p>“I’ll pay for damages.” He says, not caring, as he turns. Winston stares at him, looking him up and down. John doesn’t give him a chance to comment on his, likely, pathetic posture. “I need a list of everyone who wants Lorenzo D’Antonio dead.”</p><p>Winston stares at him in disbelief, “Half of the Camorra want Lorenzo D’Antonio dead. His children want him dead. Most of New York, the entirety of the Sicilian Mafia, the Triad, the Bravta—“</p><p>John shakes his head, “I’m looking for an individual, aside from his children. Someone would benefit from the collapse of the Camorra.”</p><p>“Again, the list is nearly endless. I would indirectly benefit from collapse of the Camorra. But the point is moot, to act against Lorenzo is to act against the High Table itself.”</p><p>John exhales a breath. He was afraid that would be the case.</p><p>He opens his phone and looks at his messages again. From Helen’s work phone, a picture of her had been sent. She looked like she was sleeping but he knew she was sedated.</p><p>Her hands were bound in front of her and while she seemed largely okay, there were bruises forming on her arms. Her bare arms, exposed by her nightgown. And in that state of undress, they had her on a cement floor.</p><p>If Winston didn’t know, and the Technician couldn’t trace the phone, he would have no choice but to go after Lorenzo. He would face whatever backlash there was with the knowledge that Helen would be safe.</p><p>Unless, the unknown enemy didn’t keep up their end of the bargain…</p><p>Winston clears his throat, “You’ve never shown an interest in Underworld politics.”</p><p>“No.” John says, still staring at the screen. “Winston, I need you to dig as quietly as you can. Anybody who’s challenged the Camorra over the last… I don’t know, three years. Open challenges, rumors of trying to find someone to take a contract against Lorenzo.”</p><p>“Jonathan,” Winston steps forward, cautiously asking, “are you going to try to kill Lorenzo D’Antonio?”</p><p>
  <em>If I have to.</em>
</p><p>“I’ve been asked to.”</p><p>Winston’s frown deepens “Conspiring to kill a member of the High Table is enough to get you stripped of services!”</p><p>John inclines his head, “I’m well aware of the rules, Winston. And I’d rather not have to kill Lorenzo but the matter is complicated.”</p><p>“In what way is it complicated?”</p><p>John hesitates. He had been stupid to think he could keep Helen safe from the Underworld. And while he had hoped to never reveal her existence to anyone, it was too late for that. He had, unwittingly, involved her.</p><p>Winston would disapprove, he already knew.</p><p>“I’m being blackmailed, and I’m not sure by who, but someone” <em>I love  </em>“very dear to me is being threatened if I don’t.”</p><p>His mentor swears. “You know better than to get involved with someone not of our world.”</p><p>“I do.” John agrees.</p><p>Again, Winston swears.</p><p> “I have no inclination to kill the D’Antonio’s, but if I can’t find out who has her, where she is… I will.”</p><p>“You can’t act against the High Table—”</p><p>John says nothing but raises a brow.</p><p>Winston knows him better than anyone, save Helen. The older assassin took John under his wing in John’s early days in the Underworld. He offered guidance and advice, impressed with John’s skill but devastated by his lack of ambition.</p><p>Looking back, his relationship with Winston was the most consistent in his life.</p><p>So Winston knows, better than most, just how reckless John Wick is willing to be.</p><p>Looking defeated, Winston shakes his head, “No woman is worth your life.”</p><p>John snorts, “She’s worth a hell of a lot more than my life.”</p><p>There’s a knock on the door and John answers it. The Technician, looking rather frazzled, comes in with a large backpack and two smaller briefcases.</p><p>“Charon said I was needed.”</p><p>John takes out his phone again and unlocks it. “I recently received a call from this contact. I need their phone traced remotely, as fast as you can. It’s likely they’re expecting a trace.”</p><p>The Technician takes the phone over to one of the table, “Do you know who the phone is registered to? It’ll be easier if I can track their SIM card. They likely dumped the phone itself to disable the GPS”</p><p>“Helen Kingston.”</p><p>“Know when she bought it?”</p><p>John shakes his head, “No, but it might have been charged to her work account.”</p><p>“Where does she work?”</p><p>John barely holds back a wince because if Winston was annoyed before, he was about to become really pissed off. “New York City Counseling Associates.”</p><p>He can practically hear the steam coming out of Winston’s ears.</p><p>“Jonathan, please tell me your girlfriend is not a therapist.”</p><p>“My girlfriend’s not a therapist.” Not a lie.</p><p>She wasn’t his girlfriend. Just his therapist.</p><p>The Technician asked as he plugged in a laptop, “You know her social?”</p><p>He probably shouldn’t, but he does. He recites the digits and looks up to see Winston staring at him incredulously.</p><p>“Jonathan, who is this woman to you?”</p><p>John looks back down, watching as the Technician opens the file attached with Helen’s social security number. Newspaper clippings mentioning her pop-up, along with her transcripts going from Kindergarten all the way through graduate school. Her bank statements, along with every credit card assigned to her.</p><p>“Jonathan!”</p><p>John doesn’t look up, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, Winston.”</p><p>“Please tell me that she’s not your—"</p><p>There’s another knock on the door and John, gratefully, steps away from the table and from Winston.</p><p>The Sommelier arrives with a room service table on wheels, covered with a white sheet that John knows from experience will have a variety of weapons.</p><p>He pushes the door further open and allows the woman entrance.</p><p>“Mister Wick.” She greets.</p><p>“Rita.”</p><p>“Charon was unsure of what you needed so I brought an assortment for you to try.”</p><p>“I appreciate that. Unfortunately, I’m currently unsure of what I’ll need. Versatility is a must.”</p><p>“Jonathan!” Winston says again, “Please excuse us, Rita, Karl, I need to speak to Mister Wick in the other room.”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>John sighs, looking to the Technician, “If the phone rings from that, or any unknown number, get me immediately.”</p><p>“Of course, Mister Wick.”</p><p>John follows Winston to the back room.</p><p>It consists of a combined kitchenette unit with a coffee pot, microwave, and sink along with a twin-sized bed to nap or rest before missions.</p><p>John closes the door and crosses his arms.</p><p>He can practically hear Helen telling him to stop looking so defensive.</p><p>Winston stands by the counter and runs a hand through his greying hair. “Tell me that you’re not about to go to war with the High Table over your <em>fucking therapist</em>.”</p><p>John says nothing.</p><p>“Jonathan.”</p><p>“You told me not to tell you.”</p><p>Winston swears again, the anger and disdain dripping from his colorful language. John waits for him to get it out of his system. If he didn’t need Winston for this, he might have just walked away. He considers it in the moment but if the Tech can’t locate that phone, Winston might be his only shot at figuring out who had her.</p><p>But he could handle Winston, so long as he made it about the D’Antonio’s.</p><p>Finally, the old man shakes his head, “What the hell were you thinking?”</p><p>He isn’t sure what to say.</p><p>It’s been seven months and John’s note entirely sure what he was thinking, going into session that first day.</p><p>She had given him comfort that day in the café. The only comfort he could really remember ever receiving.</p><p>He knew therapy was pointless for someone like him, but he’d called her… just to hear her voice one more time.</p><p>But she had sucked him in, convinced him to come see her again and he had been done for.</p><p>What had he been thinking?</p><p>That Helen’s eyes reminded him of the forests in Belarus. That her smile was worth more than an eternity of sunny days. That she had railroaded him with kindness until he wasn’t sure who he was anymore.</p><p>That if someone like Helen could see the good in him… maybe he wasn’t all bad.</p><p>His intentions, of course, are marked by his selfishness.</p><p>It never should have gotten to this point.</p><p>He had been careful, making sure that he left no trace behind on the nights he snuck into her bedroom to watch her sleep. But he hadn’t been careful enough.</p><p>He was so focused on Helen, he stopped looking over his shoulder.</p><p>And now, she was paying the price.</p><p>Winston opens his mouth and John cuts him off before he can be berated, “I don’t have an answer for you, Winston. I fucked up.”</p><p>“Clearly.” Winston shakes his head, then loudly spits out, <em>“</em>Therapy. Do you lay on a couch and talk about your childhood?”</p><p> John rolls his eyes. This is what Helen would call <em>mental health stigma</em>.</p><p>“Why do you need therapy?” Winston asks, the disgust clear in his voice.</p><p>Again, he has no answer.</p><p>At least, no answer that Winston would accept.</p><p>There was a laundry list of reasons that John needed therapy. There was probably one, equally as long, as why Winston would benefit from therapy. But Winston wouldn’t see it that way.</p><p>Before he started to see Helen, John probably would have agreed with him.</p><p>“I’m not sure if this helps,” John says, “But I only started going because she was attractive.”</p><p>Physically, mentally, emotionally. John had been an eager moth to her flame.</p><p>“If she’s attractive, you ask her to dinner. You fuck her. You get her out of your system and get your head back into the game. You don’t complain to her about your issues! But now we have some civilian out there, with no knowledge of our world, being held hostage and—"</p><p> “She knows.”</p><p>The weight of those words rests on Winston and he stops his rant, suddenly going very still.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“She knows. About all of this.”</p><p>“You told,” Winston repeated, “a fucking mandated reporter that you’re an assassin?”</p><p>John nods once.</p><p>Winston’s eyes seem to pop as he stares at John.</p><p>“I know I’ve already asked this, so forgive me the repetition, but <em>what the fuck were you thinking</em>?” Winston all but screams.</p><p>“She won’t talk.”</p><p>“Oh, are you sure about that?”</p><p>“Yes.” John says with a sense of finality, “Even with this…” he withholds a shudder, again remembering the picture of her bound and sedated on a cold, cement floor, “I trust her.”</p><p>“Clearly.” Winston snarls, “But there is a reason we don’t advertise our services to the world! Every single person who learns about the Underworld, in any respect, is supposed to be reported to your local Adjudication services.”</p><p>“You know I don’t give a fuck about S.O.P’s.” And before Winston can reply, John raises his voice slightly, “But you also know that I don’t trust easily. Helen’s not going to go running to the media or even the police. The moment she figures out what’s going on…” John shakes his head, wondering if she’s even awake yet, “she’ll know I’m coming for her.”</p><p>Winston continues to glare but John holds his gaze. He still looks furious but his posture softens, “Do you love her?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Winston lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “You always did take things to the extremes.” Winston mutters, “John Wick gets a hard-on and burns New York City to the ground. Unbelievable.”</p><p>In a moment, the air between them had changed. The tension disappeared, even if the disapproval remained.</p><p>“Lorenzo and Gianna arrive in the city tomorrow night. Santino is already here. I’ve been given until Friday to kill them all.” He’s never been good at asking for anything but he finds himself ready and willing to beg, “Winston, I <em>need </em>you to find out who has her. I have no desire to start a war with the High Table and the Camorra, but have no doubt, I will if I have to.”</p><p>“It may take time.”</p><p>“A luxury we don’t have. If we can’t find whoever is pulling the strings by the time they arrive tomorrow night, I will kill them.”</p><p>“I need more than a day, Jonathan. You have until Friday.”</p><p>“I’m not leaving Helen that long.”</p><p>“At least, give me until Sunday.” The Manager compromises, “I’ll do my best. I’ll begin right now, but right now, our only lead is someone who would benefit from the collapse of the Camorra. It isn’t much to go on.”</p><p>“Then let’s hope the Technician can pinpoint a location.”</p><p>…</p><p>She wakes up shaking before she even opens her eyes. Her bed is hard and icy and her covers are no longer tucked around her.</p><p>And then it comes rushing back. Waking up to a hand around her mouth and the glint of a needle. A momentary struggle and then nothingness.</p><p>Her mouth is dry, her limbs feel heavy.</p><p>Even opening her eyes is a struggle but Helen forces them open. All of the sudden, she is very awake.</p><p>She’s on her side, still in her nightgown, which gratefully reached her knees. She’s lying on a concrete floor. Iron bars reach from the cold floor up to the ceiling above her, caging her in a box. She uses her bound hands to push up to a sitting position to get a better look around.</p><p>The cell itself is empty, save a small stall in the corner that she really hopes contains a bathroom.</p><p>Outside of the cell is a spacious unfinished basement. There are mats on the opposite corner, covering the ground. Two punching bags hang from the rafters.</p><p>In front of her, two men sit playing cards on a rickety, foldaway table.</p><p>There’s a moment of blinding terror, her heart racing in her chest as she takes in her new surroundings. And then there is an eerie wave of calm.</p><p>She knows herself well enough to accept her weaknesses for what they are. Physically, she probably can’t put up too much of a fight. She doesn’t have the skill. It occurs to her that she may not even be able to throw a proper punch.</p><p>But she’s not useless, either.</p><p>She clears her throat, wincing as the action scratches at the dryness.</p><p>“Would one of you like to call whoever’s in charge?” She rasps out.</p><p>They exchange a look and the one on the left says, “I’m in charge.”</p><p>Helen surveys him. If she had to guess, she’d put him in his late twenties. His pants are baggy with tears she can make out from where she sat and he was wearing a sweatshirt.</p><p>This wasn’t a random kidnapping, she knew. This was planned. Well thought out. Someone who knew her schedule and learning routine took time. Then, they had sedated her. It was too organized, too clean.</p><p>This was about John.</p><p>And that kid sitting, playing cards probably had no idea the kind of monster he had just set loose by taking her.</p><p>She hums, “Maybe in the room, but not of the operation.” Helen pushes herself back so she can lean against the wall, “Call your boss, honey.”</p><p>“Listen, little bitch,” he pushes back from the table and steps over to the iron bars, taunting, “I own you right now.” He tugs a gun loose from the back of his pants, “I could kill you just like that! So how about you show me a little respect.”</p><p>“No, you listen, kid.” She forces herself up to her knees and then wobbles to her feet, “You point that thing at me, and we’re going to have a problem. If your <em>boss</em>,” she emphasizes, “wanted me dead, I would have been dead in my bed. No, he took me because he needs me. Alive and unharmed.</p><p>“Now, I’ll take pity on you because you’re young and you probably have <em>no idea</em> who you are messing with right now.” And she was certain that neither of her current jailors would stand a chance against John Wick, “So how about you call your boss, and let the grown-ups talk? Hmm?”</p><p>She’s dealt with enough pissed off clients to know when to stand her ground and when to back down. And she would be damned if she backed down from a guy who would probably trip running from the cops because he wouldn’t tie his damned laces.</p><p>And then he turns away, glaring and tucking his gun back into his pants. He grabs a phone off the table.</p><p>Helen closes her eyes and breathes.</p><p>Her head is pounding but that truly is the least of her worries.</p><p>“She’s awake.” The kid tells whoever’s on the other line. “She wants to speak to the boss.”</p><p>The kid hums along to whatever is being said on the other end. He is clearly cut off at the end, pulling the phone from his ear and looking mildly disappointed.</p><p><em>Disillusion amongst the ranks</em>? She wonders. She can work with that.</p><p>He shoots her a glare, “He’s coming.”</p><p>Helen nods her thanks and rubs at her eyes. Even now that she is awake, her lids still feel heavy. Her body, lethargic. Sore. Cold. She backs up to the wall and slides down to a sitting position.</p><p>Her body feels overly tense and she wonders if that’s a side effect of the drug, the cold, or the trauma. Or a mix of all three.</p><p>The kid is still standing, which leads her to believe that her actual captor is somewhere in the building. At the very least, nearby.</p><p>Sure enough, she hears footsteps coming down the stairs.</p><p>He’s not too much older than the boys guarding her but she’d place him in his late thirties. Dark hair, dark eyes. A pleasant smile as he regards her with interest. He’s well-dressed and walks with the assurance that comes from having everything in life handed to you.</p><p>“Hello, Miss Kingston.”</p><p>“How long have I been here?” She asks and that seems to set him aback.</p><p>The man tilts his head. “Do you know who I am?”</p><p>“Can’t say I’m interested.” She retorts, “How long have I been here?”</p><p>His lips quirk in a daring smile, “You’re not the least bit curious about who I am or why you’re here?”</p><p>“I can guess the why. John Wick pissed you off. Or you need him for something no one else could possibly handle. Vengeance, blackmail, I don’t really give a shit. And knowing your name, who you are… it won’t matter because unless you let me go right now, John is going to hunt you down and disembowel you. So let me ask you again, how long have I been here?”</p><p>She can vaguely see his two minions staring at her wide-eyed in the background. It occurs to her that maybe she shouldn’t be talking to this stranger like this but what is he going to do? To shoot her, to hurt her would be suicide by angry assassin.</p><p>But their leader just smirks, “And all this time, I thought you were just a pretty face. You’re a <em>delight</em>. To answer your question, cara mia, it’s nearly noon.”</p><p>She went to bed at ten.</p><p>And John, bless his heart, was never as subtle as he thought he was.</p><p>He would have been there sometime after midnight for his nightly stalking habits that she pretended she didn’t know about.</p><p>“He knows I’m missing.”</p><p>“Yes.” He says, “I spoke to him last night. He was quite distraught.”</p><p>Helen shakes her head in disbelief. His calmness was unsettling because either he didn’t know what John was capable of or he somehow thought himself above it. She guessed the latter, “I don’t know what you need John for. Between us, I don’t really care. But you need to think long and hard about if this is really your best idea.”</p><p>Her captor only smiles, “While your concern is touching, I’m not worried.”</p><p>“Then you’re a fool. He won’t let you walk away after this.”</p><p>“He won’t have a choice. By the time Wick completes what he needs to, he’ll find himself too entrapped by politics to be able to hunt me down. His precious therapist will be freed, and he will be consumed by the punishment for his actions.</p><p>“I suppose,” he inclines his head, “I have you to thank for all this. You entrapped John Wick. I entrapped you. And now the world will be at my fingertips.”</p><p>Helen knew she didn’t fully understand Underworld politics but she was certain that this man was vastly overplaying his hand.</p><p>“The Camorra will fall. Italia will be mine. And all because John Wick made the mistake of falling in love.”</p><p>She swallows but tries not to let it show.</p><p>Because she knew. Of <em>course</em> she knew.</p><p>She knew John better than anybody. Half the time, she knew what he was thinking before he did.</p><p>Helen wasn’t immune to the longing stares he thought he hid so well. She wasn’t blind to the midnight visits John paid her, at first only once or twice a week, until it steadily increased to a nightly guardianship.</p><p>And she wasn’t stupid enough to think that no one was ever going to figure it out. A part of her even expected this. At the very least, she wasn’t surprised to find herself kidnapped and held hostage at the whim of one of John’s enemies.</p><p>“A therapist.” The man shakes his head, amused, “Tell me, whatever does John Wick cry to you about?”</p><p>John hadn’t been kidding about the misplaced misogyny in his world, as well as the unfettered arrogance. This was ridiculous.</p><p>She had dealt with ridiculous men before and, while this one clearly believed himself to be special, she wasn’t above doing what she did best.</p><p>Helen exhaled, assessing the best she could in her weakened state.</p><p>Now was not the time for mistakes.</p><p>She took in the suit.</p><p>The manner in which he presented himself.</p><p>His demeanor.</p><p>His attitude.</p><p>His actions.</p><p>An obvious neophyte in way over his head.</p><p>In a position of power that obviously didn’t belong to him, convinced he was far better than he was.</p><p>Certainty was never possible, but it was worth the gamble. “Does your mother know that it was you that killed your father?” She asks.</p><p>Immediately, the cocky smile vanishes from her captor. “<em>What</em>?” He growls out.</p><p>“She struggled to conceive, didn’t she? You were her little miracle baby. Thank fuck you were a son so she didn’t have to go through that again. Daddy needed his heir, didn’t he?”</p><p>Bullseye.</p><p>“And your father was appeased, for a while. But then you grew older. Not so good at the physical stuff, were you? It must have been confusing, never being able to meet your father’s expectations while your mother insisted that you were perfect in every way.”</p><p>“You must think you’re very clever, Miss Kingston--”</p><p>“But not as clever as you.” She quips, “Your father tried to teach you to run the business, but years of your mother’s coddling made you soft.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“For years, you trained. You did what he asked. It wasn’t enough, it was never enough. You just couldn’t take it anymore so you killed him. Well,” Helen pauses, “You had him killed. Wouldn’t want to mess up that manicure, would we? Which leads me again, to my first question. What I can’t figure out. Does your mother know that it was you who killed your father?”</p><p>She’s met with utter silence. His two minions are staring at her in stunned disbelief. Her captor, however, is fuming. She can feel the rage, the humiliation pouring off him in waves.</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “Unless, <em>oh, honey</em>,” she makes a sympathetic face, “Did mommy kill daddy for you?”</p><p>“Nick!” A long string of Italian follows the name and the minion who hadn’t threatened her with a gun nods, frantically, before running across the room.</p><p>She looks back to the man in charge, “I prefer to counsel in my office, but I can make an exception if you want to start talking through your mommy issues.  I won’t even charge you, considering you’ll be dead in a week anyway.”</p><p>Nick runs back over with capped needle and Helen resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Here Mister DeLuca.”</p><p>Well, now she had a name.</p><p>“Seriously?” She gestures around at the cell, “I can’t even walk six feet in any direction, and you’re going to sedate me? If you didn’t want to talk about your mommy issues, you could just say so. Sometimes, we need to build up to the bigger things.”</p><p>Her door was unlocked, and it kills her but she doesn’t move or try for escape. She’s still too tired from the last cocktail of sedatives they loaded her with.</p><p>The kid, Nick, comes in and Helen idly offers her arm.</p><p><em>Do what you want</em>, she thinks, <em>it won’t stop the storm that’s coming.</em></p><p>“You’re right about one thing.” Helen says, “I am John Wick’s therapist. Which means I know John better than anyone. I know what he’s willing to compromise on and what he’ll hunt you down until the ends of the Earth over.”</p><p>Nick grabs her arm, holding it tight as if he’s expecting her to start to struggle as he uncaps the needle with his teeth.</p><p>“He’s going to tear you apart.”</p><p>The needle pierces her skin.</p><p>“So I’ll ask you again. Are you really sure this is your best idea?”</p><p>It doesn’t take long for the sedative to run its course but she holds DeLuca’s gaze until the world grows fuzzy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. I'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Waking up in a cell is a little easier the second time around Helen discovers.</p><p>She wakes up, freezing again, on the floor. Not that there was any other place to be. The cell was still empty.</p><p>The guards were different when she woke up but she barely paid them any attention. Instead, she managed to crawl to the little stall in the corner of her cell. Indeed, she was grateful to find a bathroom. The contents of her stomach were emptied into the small toilet and she wondered, idly, if it was the sedative that made her feel so.</p><p>She wished there was a window, or any other sort of indication of what time it was. What day it was.</p><p>Was it still Saturday? She wasn’t sure.</p><p>She wondered if it was Sunday and what would happen tomorrow morning when clients started arriving at her office to find it locked and empty?</p><p><em>Priorities</em>, she tells herself.</p><p>No, she wasn’t worried about a few people missing their appointments. Not when her hands were still bound together and her throat burned from the acid of her vomit.</p><p>They’d live.</p><p>And so would she.</p><p>John was coming, she knows. It may take him some time to find her. Helen was certain she was hidden somewhere that wouldn’t be easy for him to find. But she was also positive that John wouldn’t stop until she was safe.</p><p>That brought her some comfort.</p><p>But even with that knowledge, she wasn’t going to stop trying to get herself out of the mess.</p><p>She tries to engage the new guards in conversation, but they kept their mouths shut. Probably warned by DeLuca, she thinks.</p><p>Still, one of them disappears upstairs and returns with a tv dinner that he slides through the bars to her, along with a bottle of water. They undo the bindings at her wrists but refuse to give her silverware. While she can only imagine what other uses John would find for a spoon or a fork, she wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a utensil in a fight.</p><p>At least DeLuca isn’t planning on starving her. That was a plus. Especially since John would kill him either way.</p><p>She closes her eyes.</p><p>John was probably a wreck. He didn’t do well with things being out of his control and his emotional regulation skills were lacking.</p><p>This, she thinks, is really going to stunt the progress she’s made with him. Months of building up to him addressing his issues with self-esteem and his own feelings of self-hatred, only to have her kidnapped by his enemies.</p><p>It would take months more to work through the blame he was going to feel and probably years before he could even start to forgive himself.</p><p>The guards change not long after she wakes up. The new guards are told: “She’s been fed. Mostly quiet. DeLuca says not to interact with her.”</p><p>They listen. They ignore her attempts at small talk and don’t even look at her. The only moment of interaction comes when they hand her another meal a few hours later with a gruff, “Here.”</p><p>She falls asleep again after she eats. It’s almost too cold to sleep but she manages, blaming the exhaustion on the sedatives.</p><p>When she wakes up again, the guards have changed.</p><p>Nick, the man who had sedated her is back, along with someone new. The kid is younger than Nick. She’d place him in his early twenties at best. His face was still a little soft around the edges and the scarring from acne hadn’t found its way to clearing up just yet.</p><p>“Morning, boys.” She says, “Or is it night?”</p><p>“It’s two pm.”</p><p>“Hey!” Nick says, “DeLuca said not to talk to her.”</p><p>“What harm will talking do?” The new kid asks, looking over at Helen with a naïve sort of interest.</p><p>Nick shrugs, “Guess she’s some sort of psychiatrist.”</p><p><em>Wrong</em>, Helen thinks, but doesn’t comment.</p><p>“She got inside DeLuca’s head yesterday. Kinda eerie, to be honest. Started spouting all this stuff about his parents and I guess it was true, because DeLuca was <em>pissed</em>. Bastard still hasn’t come back.”</p><p>Helen resists the urge to smirk at that.</p><p>“Why didn’t he just kill her? What’s she in for?”</p><p>Helen perks up a bit. She knew, obviously, that she was here as leverage or bait or something altogether nefarious to entrap John. But the more she could figure out about the details, the better off she would be.</p><p>“You ever hear of John Wick?” Nick asks, shuffling the deck of cards.</p><p>“Heard of him?” The poor kid almost sounds excited, “The man’s a fucking legend! I heard he killed three guys who started shit-talking him in the bar with a fucking pencil!”</p><p>Helen hadn’t heard that little tidbit, but she wasn’t surprised. John’s versatility was arguably his greatest strength. It made sense that it converted to weapons.</p><p>Nick hums, “Yep. And that’s his girl.” He throws a thumb in her direction.</p><p>The kid’s head flies over, staring at Helen in shock. She gives him a finger wave and the kid looks back to Nick, “That’s the <em>boogeyman’s girl</em>?”</p><p>Nick nods and starts to toss out the cards, “DeLuca’s been talking about getting a jump on the Camorra ever since he took over the Syndicate. Can’t help but wonder if this is his ploy.”</p><p>John had referenced the Camorra before, a number of times, but she couldn’t recall him ever mentioning the Syndicate. Nevertheless, she now had a name to put to the organization and its face that held her captive.</p><p>“But, it’s the boogeyman! You don’t mess with the boogeyman!”</p><p>“Sound advice,” Helen pipes in, “I suggest you relay the message to DeLuca before he gets you all killed.”</p><p>The kid pales and Nick shakes his head, “Don’t listen to her, Frankie.”</p><p>But Frankie was already listening. She just needed one in. “He’s probably right. I wouldn’t want to spend your last hours on this Earth in fear. Play your game.” Helen tries her best to give her a sweet smile. “Have fun with your time.”</p><p>“Hours?” he echoes.</p><p>“I mean, maybe you’ll get lucky. You might have a few days before John finds this place and razes it to the ground.”</p><p>“Disengage, Frankie.” Nick warns but even he looks uneasy.</p><p>John had mentioned his reputation a few times, but this was the first time that Helen had ever seen it in action. She knew John was not one for dramatizing but still, it was a little strange to see grown men becoming uneasy at the very mention of his name.</p><p>Frankie lowers his voice but she can still hear him echoing in the empty basement. “Look, man, you know I’m all in for the cause but I don’t know if I want to be involved in this.” He shoots Helen a glance, “I don’t want the Boogeyman coming after me.”</p><p>She almost felt sorry for the kid. Rationally, she could probably justify his actions. Write it off as a kid looking for a place to fit in, a world to survive in. He was mousy and largely unintimidating. The idea of mafiaso protection probably appealed to him, gave him space to live. But, she acknowledges, it’s harder to feel bad for someone who is keeping you locked in a cage.</p><p>“It’s a little late for that, Frankie. You and Nick are already involved.”</p><p>Nick shifts uncomfortably at the use of his name. Good, she thinks. She wants him to be anxious. She wants them both to afraid of what was to come.</p><p>Poor Frankie looked ready to bolt. She had a foot in the door, now she just had to hold her ground and push through.</p><p>“Look,” Helen offers him a small smile, “You seem like a good kid. Single mom?”</p><p>His eyes widen and he nods. “How did you know?”</p><p>An educated guess, but she doesn’t elaborate. “You did whatever you had to do to help her. How many siblings you got?”</p><p>“Don’t—” Nick tries but it’s too late.</p><p>“Two.”</p><p>“Still in school?”</p><p>Again, he nods.</p><p>“Good.” Helen says, “I hope they won’t have to drop out when you aren’t around. It’s hard for kids who drop out to catch back up. Sometimes you never do. Right, Nick?”</p><p>Nick tenses immediately.</p><p>She hums and closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall.</p><p>“Nick, man—”</p><p>“She’s just getting into your head. Let it go.”</p><p>Helen huffs a small laugh at that.</p><p>“I don’t know. How’d she know about my mom? And me dropping out? I didn’t say anything that—”</p><p>“It’s all just lucky guesswork. Calm down.”</p><p>If her eyes were open, she would have rolled them. “Guesswork, huh?” She glances up. It’s not much, she thinks, but it’s an opening, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make a little wager about that?”</p><p>“Not a chance.” Nick is quick to say but she can see the curiosity behind them. It’s reflected in Frankie who, with less experience and far less intelligence is quick to ask, “What kind of wager?”</p><p>Nick shoots him a glare but doesn’t cut her off.</p><p>“I’ll read you. Both of you. I’ll analyze your lives based on what I’ve already seen of you. And, if I’m wrong, on either of you, I’ll shut up. I won’t say anything for the rest of the night.”</p><p>“And if you’re right?” Nick asks.</p><p>“I get a phone call.”</p><p>“Not a chance.” Okay. She expected that. She could compromise.</p><p>“A text, then. I’ll keep it short. No more than a minute.”</p><p>“DeLuca would kill us.” Frankie says, shaking his head.</p><p>“DeLuca doesn’t have cameras here.” She gestures around, “And I wouldn’t be worried about DeLuca killing you when John’s out there looking for me.” She pauses, “I’ll sweeten the pot. Win or lose, I’ll ask John not to kill you.”</p><p>She’s met with silence as Frankie looks to Nick to take the lead.</p><p>Nick looks indecisive and she takes that into account. She watches the way he glances towards his phone. He’s considering it.</p><p>“You’re both part of this.” Helen leans forward, “DeLuca is arrogant enough to think he can get out of this without backlash. You’ve got to know that won’t be the case. John will hunt him down to the ends of the Earth, along with anyone else who played a part in this. Your only shot of making it through this alive is for me to interfere.”</p><p>She watches him swallow. Nick isn’t stupid. He’s probably the smartest of all the kidnappers she met but, Christ, he is <em>lost</em>.</p><p>John was like that, once.</p><p>Desperate for a way out, unable to find one.</p><p>“Will he listen to you?” Nick asks finally, “If you ask him to spare us, will he listen?”</p><p>She can’t make the promise. Truth be told, she’s never seen John truly angry at anyone other than himself. She doesn’t know how this is going to go.</p><p>“I am the only chance at stopping him.” She says finally. Not a promise or a guarantee. The honest truth, if ever there was one.</p><p>“Either way, win or lose?” Nick pushes.</p><p>“I give you my word.”</p><p>The moment lasts an eternity as she holds Nick’s gaze.</p><p>“I won’t give you a minute. You can’t touch the phone. You tell me the number, I type in the message. You get to send one word.”</p><p>“Three.”</p><p>He considers it, then he nods and she breathes easy.</p><p>“Start with Frankie.” He says and there comes that guard again. Keeping himself safe. Protecting his secrets.</p><p>She suspects but she isn’t entirely sure.</p><p>Frankie is an easier read, anyway. He wears his heart on his sleeve.</p><p>Nick’s reactions to what she says to Frankie will give her everything she needs.</p><p>Helen exhales and looks to the younger boy.</p><p>She takes in the clothes, the demeanor. The way he sits, the little bit of excitement in his eyes that proved just how naïve he was. How in over his head he was.</p><p>“We’ve established the single mom. You’re the oldest. Different dad’s all around. Your mom’s a dreamer. She kept hoping that each guy would be different. They’d care. They’d stay. But they never did.</p><p>“You get that from her,” Helen softens her voice, “that tendency to daydream. It keeps you going on the bad days, but it also keeps you stuck. What do consequences matter when everything will be okay in the end, right?</p><p>“But you were smart. You did shit in school, but you were quick to pick things up and acing tests made up for the fact you probably never did you homework. But your siblings do. You prioritized their work above yours, made sure they did well. Because it was too late for you, even then, wasn’t it?”</p><p>Frankie’s mouth opens but she keeps going.</p><p>“Three boys,” That much is a guess but the subtle intake of breath from Frankie tells her she’s right, “Three growing boys need food. And clothes. Mom was running herself to the ground to keep going. So, you stepped up. Because you’re the oldest, and because you love your mom. And, partly, because she and your brothers are all you have.”</p><p>Frankie looks like he’s going to pass out at any minute but it’s Nick she’s watching, out of the corner of her eye.</p><p>Nick’s leg is shaking, bouncing with nervous energy and he’s staring at his phone, as if it’s the only thing in the world giving him strength.</p><p>She’s willing to stake everything that whatever his lock screen shows is his reason to get up each and every morning.</p><p>Turning her attention back to Frankie, she continues, “So you wound up here. It’s local and Italian, so it could be worse in your mother’s eyes. It doesn’t stop her from worrying, though.</p><p>“But you have your uses. You’re not street smart like the rest of these guys here, but just clever enough that you see things they don’t. Finding patterns and solving puzzles. It makes up for the fact you’re shit in a fight and you probably can’t even shoot straight.”</p><p>Frankie’s face breaks into a huge grin, “Holy shit! That was dead on! How did you do that?” He leaves his chair and comes to sit on the ground outside her cell. “I didn’t know psychologists did that.”</p><p>Her face softens, “Most don’t. Technically, we’re supposed to avoid making assumptions but, after a while, you learn to pick up on little things.”</p><p>Nick narrows his eyes, “Still seems like guess work to me. The fact we’re both dropouts isn’t written on our faces. You guessed based on the fact we’re involved in Syndicate.”</p><p>“It gave me an indication of your socioeconomic status,” she admits, “But, in Frankie’s case, it was the oldest brother, single mother combination that made me go in that direction. I used to do quite a bit of family therapy. There are roles that often come up in enmeshed families,” she explains, looking back at Frankie, “things like enablers who allow everything to happen, or scapegoats, who get blamed for everything.”</p><p>Helen tries to watch Nick’s reaction to the scapegoat. And sure enough, he stares at his locked screen.</p><p>“What am I?” Frankie asks.</p><p>“The Hero.” His chest puffs up at the label, “You try to fix everything, even the things that can’t ever be put back together. Which is how I knew you dropped out to help your mom. It’s what you do.”</p><p>“And Nick?” He asks, gesturing back to where Nick sat at the table.</p><p>Curious, but tense. Disbelieving, but with a hint of worry.</p><p>He had the most to lose from this expenditure.</p><p>“Nick,” she says softly, “was the scapegoat. And that’s a difficult place to be because you can do <em>everything</em> right but it doesn’t matter. I imagine you got in trouble a lot as a kid, didn’t you, Nick? You didn’t follow the expectations lined out for you. In your parent’s eyes, you made the wrong choices. Had the wrong friends. Played with the wrong toys.”</p><p>“There are no wrong toys.” Frankie says, tilting his head in confusion.</p><p>“You’re right.” Helen replies, not looking away from Nick, who is now tapping his fingers on the table in an attempt to appease the nervous energy. “But there were in your parent’s eyes. So you tried to appease them, to do everything right. Just how they wanted but you had already made your bed and they never quite got over it.”</p><p>Helen has to close her eyes at the flash of pain she sees in Nick’s eyes.</p><p>And she’s careful with her phrasing because she won’t be the one to bring it into the open, even if she needs to communicate to him that she <em>knows</em> his deepest secret. The one he pretends doesn’t exist.</p><p>“I’ll admit, I am unsure of what happened. But they found out. Maybe you told them, or they saw something they shouldn’t have, but they found out.”</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>“They found out, and you lost everything.”</p><p>Nick’s hand reaches for his phone and his fist tightens around it, like a lifeline.</p><p>“I don’t understand.” Frankie says, looking between them.</p><p>Helen ignores him. “You didn’t have a choice but to leave school. You had to support yourself. Take care of yourself. And you found this place. The Syndicate. A family in its own right and they took you in. But this time, you were more careful. You didn’t let it show.”</p><p>“Stop!” Nick shouts and Helen does. His face is red, his chest rising and falling.</p><p>Helen swallows but stares Nick down until he brings is eyes to meet hers. “There is <em>nothing</em> wrong with you, Nick.”</p><p>“You don’t know shit.”</p><p>“I don’t know the pain of what you’ve been through. Your experience is your own. But I know what it’s like to be afraid and to feel trapped. And I know that nothing is going to change until you learn to accept who you are.”</p><p>Nick closes his eyes and rubs them.</p><p>And Frankie, bless his stupid fucking heart, looks back to Nick in a kind of understanding. “Oh.” He says and he looks to Helen and then again to his comrade, “Dude, I know how this place can be, but if it helps, I don’t care one way or the other. My middle brother is gay.”</p><p>Nick winces at the word and looks past Frankie to Helen.</p><p>“What gave it away?” He asks, voice heavy with emotion.</p><p>“Nothing that anyone else will pick up on.” She eases his worries, “I’ve been a therapist for nearly fifteen years. I know what to look for.”</p><p>Nick looks to Frankie, “You can’t fucking t—”</p><p>“I won’t say anything.” Frankie is quick to jump in. “I see how the world treats Gio and he’s only in high school.”</p><p>“The world can be a cruel place. As humans, we tend to have a hard time distinguishing what is perceived as normal and what is perceived as right. But we all have a responsibility to challenge those beliefs and I am sorry that your parents couldn’t do that for you.”</p><p>“I wasn’t a bad kid.” Nick mutters.</p><p>“Of course you weren’t.”</p><p>“I just wanted my parents to love me.”</p><p>“Some parents aren’t made to be parents. And the fact they couldn’t get over their narrow world view has nothing to do with you.”</p><p>“I can’t come out.”</p><p>“You don’t have to.” Helen tells him, “You can live the rest of your life pretending to be someone you’re not. Half the world does, anyway. But I can guarantee you that hiding who you are isn’t going to do anything to protect your kid.”</p><p>Nick’s eyes widen and he looks to Helen in shock.</p><p>“You have a kid? How did that even happen?” Frankie asks.</p><p>“Tequila.”</p><p>“We’ve all been there.” Helen mutters, lifting her water bottle in a silent salute. “The guys start asking too many questions about why you never date, never have a girlfriend. They start teasing at the truth and you go out and find somebody. Anybody. And things happen, because things always do. And the next thing you know, you’re trapped in another web of lies. It’s easier to play along than to find a way out and, eventually, that web of lies starts to feel like home. And right now, it’s fine. But webs will always begin to unravel. I’d suggest you do it on your own terms rather than watch your world implode.”</p><p>Nick shivers, “You really need to stop.”</p><p>“Sorry. It’s hard to shut off, sometimes.”</p><p>“I can see why DeLuca sedated you.” He mutters and grabs his phone, “A deal is a deal. What’s the number?”</p><p>Helen tries not to look to relieved as Nick brings up a new text message. She recites John’s number, forever thankful that she memorized it. Just in case.</p><p>He types it in and shakes his head, “I take it this is Wick’s direct line?”</p><p>She nods, “Yes.”</p><p>Nick exhales, “I’m really fucking glad our shift is almost done. What do you want to say?”</p><p>Three words, she muses. They had agreed on three words.</p><p>She didn’t know if he already knew where she was, or who had her. Helen didn’t want to waste her one shot giving John information he already had but, she liked to think if he knew where she was, he would already be here.</p><p>“DeLuca of Syndicate.” She decides and hopes against hope that it is enough.</p><p>….</p><p>Dead ends.</p><p>After more than a day of searching, John had only been met with dead ends and more questions.</p><p>Winston was right. The answer to <em>who would want to destroy the Camorra</em> was apparently everybody. Which meant the only other factor they had to go on was by means.</p><p>Who had the resources to stalk and evade John Wick?</p><p>Again, the answer was more substantial than he knew what to do with.</p><p>They all had money. Especially, the higher up the food chain they went.</p><p>While Winston had been able to clear the highest-ranking officials of the High Table, there were still hundreds of smaller echelons to eliminate.</p><p>It hadn’t been going well.</p><p>John had limited the search to the Camorra’s immediate allies and their top adversaries, local and foreign. Winston was running it now but John could tell he wasn’t hopeful.</p><p>It had never occurred to John just how far the Underworld went. Aside from the major players, there were crime families and gangs that all held some sort of stake in his world. And New York was the fucking capital of it all. Anyone and everyone had ties to the city.</p><p>The Technician was still there, in his room. He had used the twin bed to catch a few hours of sleep while they waited for the phone to be activated and John had kept vigil. He watched the phone, waiting for any sort of call or message that wasn’t going to come. He watched the computer, hoping that something would pop up.</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry. There’s nothing, Mister Wick. If this guy had a modicum of common sense, he would have ditched her original phone and just taken the SIM card. He’ll probably keep the phone off until he intends to use it. Might even be removing the card and only using that when he needs it. Until it’s turned on, we can’t do anything.”</em>
</p><p>It had taken every ounce of self-control John had not to smash the Technician’s computer. To break the table the way he had done the chair.</p><p>He wanted to break something. Needed to see, and hear, and feel something smash apart. Something else had to break before he did.</p><p>Thirty-six hours.</p><p>It had been thirty-six hours since he had gotten the phone call and he was still no closer to finding Helen.</p><p>His stomach churned.</p><p>He’d never had trouble eating before or after a mission before. Nothing rattled him. Not blood, or entrails, or the crack of breaking bones. He could see brain matter spattered along a floor and go for a cheeseburger right after.</p><p>But this uncertainty, the not knowing… it was killing him.</p><p>Had she eaten?</p><p>There was a frost over the weekend. Was she someplace warm?</p><p>Was she scared?</p><p>Did she know he was coming?</p><p>He hears the door open and jumps to his feet, heading to the main room. The Technician was hunched over the laptop, needlessly running security cameras and traffic footage near Helen’s home.</p><p>John feared it wouldn’t be enough.</p><p>A table full of weapons brought by the Sommelier is prepped near the door that Winston is walking through.</p><p>He has a bag ready in case Winston is unable to find anything. In case he has to go after the D’Antonio’s.</p><p>Winston shakes his head at John, almost in defeat.</p><p>“We need to reframe our parameters.” The Manager says, “It’s still too broad.”</p><p>John leans against the table. He hadn’t been expecting much but anything would be better than the constant attempts to narrow their search.</p><p>What was he missing? What was he leaving out?</p><p>What if he went too narrow and ended up missing Helen?</p><p>“Have you slept, Jonathan?”</p><p>It’s the third time they’ve had this conversation.</p><p>He’s tried. But he can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Helen, bound and passed out on the cold floor.</p><p>He can’t remember how many coffee’s he had but it’s keeping him going.</p><p>“I suppose I should be grateful you’ve showered.” Winston says, obviously still disapproving. “Still, you won’t be any good to her if you’re strung out on caffeine.”</p><p>“I’ve tried, Winston. I just…” He trails off.</p><p>
  <em>This is your fault. You should have protected her better. You should never have showed weakness. Should never have gone to her house. To her office. Should never have brought your fucked-up life into her safe one. </em>
</p><p>He runs a hand through his hair.</p><p>The sitting, the waiting, the hoping is doing absolutely <em>nothing</em>.</p><p>He has to fix this.</p><p>“I can’t wait any longer, Winston.” John shakes his head, “I’m going after Lorenzo.”</p><p>Winston responds in kind, “Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.”</p><p>“I can’t sit here doing nothing. If I kill the D’Antonio’s, this is over. She’ll be released.”</p><p>“You’re banking on an unknown enemy being honest.”</p><p>It was true, but what else was there to go on?</p><p>“He has no reason to keep her once they’re dead.”</p><p>“That you know of. This could just be the beginning of his plan.” Winston keeps arguing.</p><p>“It’s all ifs right now!” John can feel the anger brimming within him, “But it’s all I have! And Helen… she’s tough but she has her limits.”</p><p>Winston frowns, “Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before you became involved with her.”</p><p>“You think I don’t know that! <em>I know </em>that this is my fault but I will get her out of this. I gave you time, I gave the Technician a chance.”</p><p>“My time isn’t up.”</p><p>“You have a handful of hours and no fucking leads.”</p><p>“Um, Mister Wick…” The Technician pipes up, turning around in his seat.</p><p>“Then help me narrow down what I should be looking for. You know I can’t just let you go off to kill a member of the High Table.”</p><p>“You won’t be able to stop me.”</p><p>“Mister Wick!” The Technician shouts and both John and Winston turn to look at him, “You, um, sorry. But you just got a text from an unknown number.”</p><p>He holds up the phone and John takes it.</p><p>A New York number, that he doesn’t recognize, but opens all the same. The message is short, deliberate.</p><p>The miracle he’s been praying for.</p><p><em>DeLuca of Syndicate</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I'd be the dreadful need in the devotee that made him turn around</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Helen was waiting.</p><p>It was a matter of time now, for John to come.</p><p>She pulled the sweatshirt that Nick had given to her tighter around her shoulders. It must be getting late, she notes, because it’s getting colder again.</p><p>The guards had changed just two hours after she managed to send John the text. The new ones weren’t as talkative but she really didn’t need them to be. Not anymore.</p><p>She had gotten a message out.</p><p>Now she just had to wait.</p><p>She wonders if he’s narrowing her location or if he’s already on his way.</p><p>She wonders what the fuck she’ll do if she wakes up again in the morning and find she’s still here. That John hadn’t come for her.</p><p>Maybe he wasn’t able to?</p><p><em>No</em>. She pushes that thought quickly from her mind.</p><p>This was John. Nothing would stop him.</p><p>She just needs to keep waiting.</p><p>The phone rings from one of the guards and she watches, with vague interest, as he picks up the call.</p><p>“’lo?”</p><p>She can’t hear what is happening on the other side of the line, but the guard looks to Helen, his eyes wide with fear.</p><p>She can’t help the smile that grows on her face with the unbidden knowledge: <em>He’s coming</em>.</p><p>“What? Why?” There’s a pause and his eyes widen, “Yes, sir.” He hangs up and jumps to his feet, turning to his partner, “Go get the car. We’re moving her.”</p><p>“Now?” The other guy rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Marco, <em>John Wick</em> is coming.”</p><p>Helen breathed a sigh of relief just at hearing his name. He was on his way. He was coming.</p><p>Marco’s eyes widen and he, too, scrambles to his feet.</p><p>“Baba Yaga? Why?”</p><p>“Oh, you poor bastards.” Marco and the other guard look at her fearfully, “You agreed to guarding me without ever asking who I was.”</p><p>Stall, she thinks. They’re trying to move her to a second location, one that John might not be able to find as easily… She can’t let them move her.</p><p>Not if he’s coming.</p><p>“Who are you?” Marco asks.</p><p>She borrows the language that Nick used. Therapist or not, in this world, it was probably the most accurate assessment of their relationship, “I’m John Wick’s girl.”</p><p>“Oh fuck.”</p><p>Helen makes a show of examining her nails, “Honestly, it took him long enough.”</p><p>“Get the car, now!” The taller guard states.</p><p>“I mean, you could get the car.” Helen says, “But trust me when I tell you, that’s just going to piss him off.”</p><p>They exchange a look.</p><p>“My suggestion is that both of you leave before he gets here. He won’t come after you right away that way. Or you could stay here and surrender. Maybe he’ll take pity on you.” She offers a smile, “Claim your ignorance. You didn’t know who I was.”</p><p>They’re both distraught and tense. Finally, one of them breaks.</p><p>“Marco, get the car.”</p><p>“Dude, I don’t know…”</p><p>“Do you want to be here when John Wick gets here? GO!”</p><p>Helen makes a face, doing her best to look both understanding of his decision but skeptical of his choice. “Not your best move, but I get it. It’s noble that you’re willing to die for your cause.”</p><p>Marco makes a noise of fear but he hurries to the stairs, taking them two at a time.</p><p>The other guard grabs the keys that had been hanging from a nearby hook. He shoves it into the lock of her cell and Helen feels her heart start to race.</p><p>They can’t move her. Not yet.</p><p>Not after she finally got through to him.</p><p>He reaches for her and she quickly jumps across the floor to the edge of her cell. The sweatshirt falls from her shoulders as she does, and she wraps her arms around the bars as tightly as she can.</p><p>Fingers dig into her arm, but she holds tight. Every second counts.</p><p>“Fuck! Let go!” There’s panic in his voice and there should be. Every single thing these men have heard about John Wick, every rumor and urban legend, was about John at his baseline.</p><p>But right now, he was pissed.</p><p>She gave the guards the option to walk away. That they hadn’t is now beyond her control.</p><p>One arm is pried loose but the other stands firm. She manages to kick backward and he grunts, falling to one knee as his leg is knocked down.</p><p>She manages to free the arm and entangles herself back amongst the bars.</p><p>His arms wrap under hers this time and he tries to pull her off that way. The technique is a little better and she feels herself slipping.</p><p>She kicks out again, thrashing as hard as she can. She just needs to waste time, to stall. Just a little longer.</p><p>
  <em>He’s coming.</em>
</p><p>There are footsteps on the stairs and Marco hurries back down.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>She was barely holding out against one of DeLuca’s goons.</p><p>“Get the sedative!” The guard growls out and Helen resists the urge to swear.</p><p>She slams her foot back again, managing a kick to the balls and watches, in relief, as the guard doubles over in pain. She lets go of the bars and bolts to her feet. She feels her head rush after being on the ground for so long but she runs as fast as she can towards the stairs.</p><p>She makes it up the first few and then her ankle is grabbed and she falls forward. Her head bounces off a step and the world goes fuzzy.</p><p>Helen tries to blink, to keep herself conscious but it’s pointless. The needle is jabbed into her flesh and she feels herself being picked up.</p><p>She had been so close…</p><p>But it wasn’t enough.</p><p>…</p><p>They had a name. And an organization.</p><p>But nothing else. The sender had immediately blocked their number, but it was a start.</p><p><em>“Dante DeLuca is dead.”</em> Winston had said when John read the text aloud. <em>“He passed on three months ago. I had flowers sent to his widow, in Rome.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“Does he have children?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Several. Only one legitimate, I believe. Mateo.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Karl, run a search on Mateo DeLuca. Current position, known allies, and any properties listed under his or his father’s name.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Running now.” </em>
</p><p>Mateo DeLuca was largely unknown. He wasn’t particularly well-respected by anyone and was really known only as Dante DeLuca’s son and heir. Dante, himself, hadn’t seemed too fond of the boy but that was often the case.</p><p>You raise spoiled children; you get rotten adults.</p><p>Mateo had a degree from Columbia University in business. A few arrests during that time but no convictions.</p><p>As far as the Underworld went, Mateo had virtually no presence.</p><p>And while Mateo was Dante’s heir, there was some evidence that he had been grooming a few others to take over the business upon his passing. But then he had died, seemingly of natural causes.</p><p>John was doubting that.</p><p>Winston stated that, indeed, the Syndicate was an enemy of the Camorra. Still, they were far too small to overtake the larger empire of the D’Antonio’s.</p><p>John didn’t care about that. The politics were over now that he had a name. Winston could deal with the fallout. Report Mateo’s treason to the High Table. Or not.</p><p>There really wasn’t much of a point considering that John was more than willing to just kill the bastard and be done with it.</p><p>Karl ran every property associated with the Syndicate in New York while John began strapping weapons.</p><p>“I have a location on Mateo.” Karl says, “He’s at a party in Manhattan. He just posted on his Instagram.”</p><p>John wasn’t entirely sure what that sentence meant.</p><p>“She must be being kept somewhere else.”</p><p>“A small property.” John agrees, “Someplace private, out of the way.”</p><p>“He’s got a handful of houses. A brownstone in Brooklyn.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “Too many potential witnesses.”</p><p>“There’s a few places down in Staten Island and oh… He owns a condemned block in Long Beach. Series of houses bought out after Hurricane Irene.”</p><p>“Closest neighbor?”</p><p>“At least a block.”</p><p>John grabs his phone back and types the address into his GPS.</p><p>She’s there. She has to be.</p><p>Still, he gruffly adds, “Keep searching. Just in case.”</p><p>“Jonathan, perhaps you should come up with a plan—”</p><p>John shoots the Manager a look.</p><p>He isn’t waiting anymore.</p><p>“Call for my car. I’ll update you when I can.” John tells him as he leaves the room.</p><p>The drive from the Continental to Long Beach should have been an hour. Luckily, traffic was on his side. The gas pedal pressed to the floor didn’t hurt, either. He blows through every stop sign and red light he meets.</p><p>The ocean is visible and he breathes a sigh of relief. He’s close, now.</p><p>His phone begins to ring and John spares the ID a glance. The Continental.</p><p>He answers it, “This is Wick."</p><p>“Hi, Mister Wick, it’s, uh, Karl.” The Technician awkwardly greets, “You said to keep an eye out and I did and, um, DeLuca knows.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He knows you’re coming, sir. He has sentries over in Long Beach and they reported seeing your car. He knows you’re coming and he made a call to someone at the house.”</p><p>“How many sentries?”</p><p>“I don’t know, sir. But DeLuca’s made two more calls since the house that have pinged in your general vicinity.”</p><p>Sure enough, John checks his rearview and a black car is following him. They’d have to be going at least fifty to keep on his tail.</p><p>“Thank you.” John turns off the phone. He’s less than five miles away.</p><p>Five miles away from Helen.</p><p>He’s sure they’re keeping her there now.</p><p>And they’ll be ready for him.</p><p>That’s fine. It won’t make a difference. He’ll kill them all.</p><p>As long as he got there in time.</p><p>They’d be moving her. DeLuca’s only leverage against John, and the only thing keeping John from outright murdering him was Helen.</p><p>He hears the sounds of loud motors and checks his rearview.</p><p>Sure enough, another car slides off of a side street and joins the pursuit.</p><p>In any other situation, he might have laughed. Now, it was just a nuisance. Another obstacle trying to prevent him from reaching what he needed most.</p><p>But he can’t worry about them now. He can’t stop to take care of the problem because he can’t fucking risk them moving her.</p><p>There’s an idling car out front of one of the houses.</p><p>He can see her. She’s clearly unconscious, being carried from the house to the car. Two men in front of him, he’s not even sure of how many are behind.</p><p>He had hoped for a bit of stealth, the element of surprise. But then, his car barreling down a side street at eighty miles an hour is hard to miss, especially when he slams the breaks and the tires loudly squeal along the pavement.</p><p>He’s usually better than this. A <em>lot</em> better than this. In fact, he’s not sure he can really remember a time since his teens when he went in guns’ blazing.</p><p>He was too calm, too focused, too tactical for that.</p><p>Yet here he is.</p><p>And the clock is ticking.</p><p>He can’t let them get away.</p><p>John opens the door and lunges from the car, ducking from the shots being fired from the cars behind them as they squeal to a stop. He aims low, not willing to waste ammo until he knew what he was dealing with and fired a shot. The back left tire starts to compress and he does the same for the right.</p><p>They’re not getting away.</p><p>The man, not carrying Helen, reaches to his belt and John fires again.</p><p>The bullet breaks into his hand and he can hear the cry of pain. Before the man can reach again, John aims higher and shoots him in the neck.</p><p>He can hear firing coming from behind him.</p><p>He has to take them out before she can be hit by a stray bullet.</p><p>
  <em>All it takes is one. </em>
</p><p>Luckily, the man who has Helen has ducked down low.</p><p>He needs more eyes, more hands.</p><p>He turns, because he needs to and starts counting.</p><p>Three cars, two men each. Clearly, DeLuca had not paid enough attention when researching potential assassins to manipulate.</p><p>John ducks back behind the car, reloading his weapon. He wants to move towards them, to finish this quickly, but he needs to keep his head. He needs to deal with this like he’s not emotionally involved because, to do otherwise, would be suicide.</p><p>He stops and listens. The gunfire dies down and the men on the other side of the car are hollering directions to one another.</p><p>Amateur hour.</p><p>He can hear footsteps coming on either side of car, heavily pounding on the concrete.</p><p>John stays crouched but moves to the left side. He tucks his gun into its holster and, instead, grabs a knife from his boot.</p><p>Just as the first two men reach the front of the car, John grabs the one on the left but the shirt and stabs him in the gut. He stands, disarming the shocked man and drags the blade up. His hand snatches the gun with ease and he fires once over his shoulder to the man just behind him, then again at the man who was coming around the right side of the car.</p><p>He manages to dodge, jumping back behind the tallest part of the car.</p><p>John fires through the passenger side window. The bullet flies through the car and comes out on the other side, staggering the man back. He fires again and the man drops to the ground.</p><p>Four down, he thinks. Four to go.</p><p>A shot is fired at him from back where the other cars were. Two of the men still are hiding back at the cars they came in.</p><p>John spins back around to the front of the car.</p><p>The man from the opposite side of the car takes off running as John sneaks down low to the other side. He uses the new gun to fire low. The first shot goes through the calf, likely shredding the muscle.</p><p>Hurts like a bitch, John knows from experience. He hobbles and falls to the ground, screaming.</p><p>DeLuca’s men, it would seem, are well armed but not trained for shit. He’s momentarily baffled that these were the forces, the army that DeLuca thought he could use to overthrow the Camorra?</p><p>But arrogance was his pitfall.</p><p>John couldn’t fault him for that; it was his own, as well.</p><p>But everything else? The stalking, the kidnapping, the threats? John could fault him for that. That was the reason that DeLuca was going to die.</p><p>The last two standing from his pursuers seem unwilling to leave the safety of their cars. Which means, unfortunately, that John can either wait them out or be the one to move.</p><p>Waiting it out is smarter. He knows it’s what he should do but a look across to where Helen is and he can’t.</p><p>Anger flares within him as he realizes that the man holding her is using her as a kind of shield.</p><p>It won’t save him, John thinks, turning his attention back towards the cars. They’re waiting for movement, waiting to fire.</p><p>Outnumbered, outgunned, back against the wall.</p><p>Thank fuck for Kevlar.</p><p>He stands and immediately hears the shots being fired at him. He swerves, immediately, expecting to draw their fire. The bullets miss him and John sprints forward, firing as he does. A bullet hits the front side of the Kevlar and it nearly winds him, but he keeps moving.</p><p>John hits the opposite side of the first car and drops to his stomach. In the confusion, he fires and a bullet breaks the ankle of the closer man.</p><p>He drops to the ground and John flips around, jumping on top of the hood of the car to shoot the last man standing in the head before delivering a kill shot to wounded man on the ground.</p><p>There’s silence, except for the spluttering breaths of the man John had shot in the calf.</p><p>He hops off the hood of the car, heading towards Helen and the last of DeLuca’s men. He idly shoots the fallen soldier in the head and moves on.</p><p>DeLuca’s man scrambles backward, his arm wrapped around Helen’s torso, holding her up <em>literally </em>as a shield.</p><p>John shakes his head in disbelief, his gun lowered at his side but cocked just the same.</p><p>The man almost trips over the sidewalk in his state of panic.</p><p>John glances to Helen and tries not to tense or flinch at the blood spilling from her temple or the scratch marring her cheek. There are bruises on her arms that resemble fingers and he wishes he could kill them all again.</p><p>“Don’t, please…”</p><p>“Set her on the ground. Gently.”</p><p>“You’ll shoot me.”</p><p>“I’ll shoot you either way.” He snarls, “Set her down, and I’ll make it quick.”</p><p>“Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just don’t kill me.”</p><p>“I’m not going to tell you again.” John says, stepping closer.</p><p>“Okay, okay!” The man kneels and carefully sets Helen so that she’s on the grassy front lawn. Her body is laid out, her head lolling to the side. “Just, please don’t—”</p><p>John shoots him in the head.</p><p>The closest thing to mercy he was capable of while watching her bleed.</p><p>John reloads his weapon as he kneels, keeping it out of his holster. Just in case.</p><p>He checks her headwound first. It’s shallow but there’s a large bump that’s already forming. A fall, he thinks, rather than a hit.</p><p>The mark on her cheek similarly resembles an abrasion.</p><p>It’s simultaneously not bad and the worst thing he’s ever seen. He wraps an arm under her legs and another around her back and lifts her up. He pulls her close to his chest and breathes easy for the first time in two days.</p><p>He keeps his eyes peeled for enemies as he hurries back to his car.</p><p>He can’t stay here long. As much as he would love a confrontation with every single person under DeLuca’s employ, he has to get her out of here. To safety.</p><p>John hadn’t been thinking long-term beyond getting Helen to safety but now there were other things to consider.</p><p>He couldn’t take her back to her home. DeLuca would find it and attack, whether John was there or not. He couldn’t risk putting Helen back into the line of fire.</p><p>The Continental was off the table, too.</p><p>DeLuca already knew she existed, as did a select few of the Continental staff, but the last thing John wanted was for others to find out about her. She might never have another moment’s rest if the Underworld found out that John Wick had a weakness.</p><p>That left his house.</p><p>His heart stuttered at the thought.</p><p>He’d imagined it a thousand times.</p><p>Every morning when he had breakfast, he wondered what Helen would look like standing in his kitchen.</p><p>Every time he watched television or read on the couch, he would imagine her presence beside him.</p><p>Every night he went to sleep in his own bed, he would roll on his side and think about what it would be like to reach over and touch her.</p><p>His love. His life.</p><p>He maneuvers Helen to one arm as he opens the passenger-side door and slips her inside. He fastens the seatbelt and leans the seat back the best he can. Finally, he slips off his suit jacket and covers her with it. It’s huge over her small frame and he tries not to delight in the sight.</p><p>John cannot resist placing a kiss to her head.</p><p>She’s here.</p><p>She’s safe.</p><p>He closes the door and goes around to the passenger side. He turns the car around and hurries out of the neighborhood and back towards the city and the bridge that will take him back home.</p><p>John sets a hand on her leg, squeezing gently to make sure that she really was there.</p><p>The nightmare was over.</p><p>The rest could be handled with ease now that she was safe. He could track down DeLuca and make him fucking pay for taking Helen. Burn what was left of Syndicate to the ground.</p><p>The moment they had cleared Long Beach, he reaches for his phone, dialing the Manager.</p><p>Winston picks up after the first ring.</p><p>“Jonathan.”</p><p>“I have her.”</p><p>Winston hums in response.</p><p>“I’m going to need Doc.”</p><p>“At the Continental?”</p><p>“At my house.”</p><p>He can practically feel Winston rolls his eyes, “The Doctor doesn’t do house calls.”</p><p>“I’ll pay whatever he wants.”</p><p>“You are aware that I’m not your secretary, aren’t you, Jonathan?”</p><p>John resists the urge to roll his eyes, “Winston. Please.”</p><p>“I’ll make it happen.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Winston huffs, then asks, “Is she alright?”</p><p>John glances over at the passenger seat. She still was unconscious, but she had stopped bleeding.</p><p>“She’s safe. A few injuries. I want to make sure that none are worse than they look.”</p><p>He’s met with silence at first. Winston clears his throat, “You do know this won’t be the end of it?”</p><p>John focuses his attention on the road ahead. “I’ll track down DeLuca.”</p><p>“Your secret is already out. Others will find out about your little therapist. You say she’s safe, but for how long?”</p><p>He swallows hard. He can’t begin to process those thoughts until Helen is safe, in bed, and being looked at by a doctor. Then, he’ll have the breakdown he’s been putting off for two days.</p><p>“I’ll speak with you soon. Can you make sure Karl gets paid and tipped well for his services?”</p><p>He can practically feel the Manager roll his eyes, “Yes, yes. I’ll send the Doctor out shortly. If you’re leaving Long Beach now, he may even make it there before you.”</p><p>John offers his thanks and drives the rest of the route in silence, safe the soft sounds of her breathing.</p><p>It puts him at ease, hearing her breathe.</p><p>He revels in every slight intake and gentle exhale.</p><p>It takes longer to get home than it did to find her. While he still speeds, he is no longer doubling the speed limit as he travels home.</p><p>As Winston had suggested, the Doctor was already there when John pulls up. He parks out front rather than pulling up to the garage.</p><p>“Mister Wick.” The Doctor greets as John climbs out of the car.</p><p>“Doc. Thank you for coming.”</p><p>John goes to the other side of the car. He undoes the seatbelt and slips her, carefully, back into his arms.</p><p>“Do you know what happened to her?” The Doctor asks, eyeing his new patient the best he can while she remains in John’s grasp.</p><p>John shakes his head, “She was unconscious when I found her. I don’t know if she was sedated or if she’s still out from the headwound she sustained.”</p><p>He opens the door to his home and leads Doc through the house, upstairs to John’s own bedroom.</p><p>With a sense of longing, he lays Helen in his bed.</p><p>He takes his jacket back and tosses it to the side, allowing Doc access to the rest of her body. The bruises on her arms look worse in the light of his room.</p><p>The man was lucky John was feeling merciful.</p><p>Doc opens his bag and starts by cleaning the wounds marring her face. He wipes away the blood and bandages the cut on her temple.</p><p>“It wasn’t the headwound that knocked her out.” Doc says after examining her. “Without assessing her conscious I can only guess that this is a minor concussion. Although I’m sure she’ll have headaches for the next few weeks. It looks like she’s been drugged a few times. I’d guess this is the work of a sedative.”</p><p>That was John’s guess as well.</p><p>“Give her twelve hours and try to wake her up. If she’s unresponsive, call me.”</p><p>The Doctor grabs a bottle of pills and hands them to John. “Aspirin will do just fine for the pain. Give her this for the headaches.”</p><p>John nods, tucking Helen into his bed as the Doctor packs up.</p><p>“I can’t thank you enough for coming out here.” John tells him. On his bureau, there’s several stacks of coins. He takes one and hands it off to the Doctor.</p><p>“Of course. I hope you’ll forgive my boldness, but I don’t recognize her. Is she based in another city?”</p><p>John fights back the urge to wince. While he doesn’t think Doc would say anything to anybody, he doesn’t want to let anyone else know about her identity. But then, Doc had come all this way to ease John’s fears.</p><p>He swallows, “She’s not of the Underworld. She’s… a friend of mine. Who got pulled in over her head.”</p><p>The Doc hums, “Be careful with otherworlders, John Wick. Persephone was only a guest of the Underworld and she never escaped it.” Before John can think of a response, Doc has his bag in hand, “I wish her a speedy recovery. Good night, Mister Wick.”</p><p>The Doctor leaves them in peace and John brings a chair around to her side of the bed. He sits down, nearly collapsing. She is safe.</p><p>His vigil begins anew.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. I'd be the immediate forgiveness in Eurydice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I was so overwhelmed with the sweet comments you guys left, I couldn't help but finish another chapter! Hope you all enjoy!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Waking up from sedation is becoming a bad habit although she isn’t unhappy about the haziness. In the moments before opening her eyes, she could almost believe that she was wrapped in blankets, floating on a cloud rather than the concrete floor.</p><p>She tries to open her eyes, but they’re drawn shut, her lids just a bit too heavy to be opening right now. That’s alright, she decides.</p><p>She could stay like this a little longer, in the fugue-state that offered more comfort than reality. Embrace the warmth of her dream-like state.</p><p>She’s hopes Nick and Frankie are back today. Playing cards with them would break up the monotony of waiting for John…</p><p>John.</p><p>John was coming.</p><p>The last thing she remembers is the phone call. The warning that John Wick was coming. She had tried to hold on, to keep them from moving her. But they were going to sedate her. She thinks she had tried to escape but she couldn’t remember anything else.</p><p>They’d sedated her again.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>She forces her eyes open to take in her new surroundings, wondering if she’d get the chance to send John another message…</p><p>He’s there. John is sitting in a leather armchair, eyes closed, in the dimly lit room.</p><p>Late night or early morning? She really isn’t sure. And she can’t bring herself to care, looking at John.</p><p>He looks exhausted, slumped back. His hair is a little wild and there’s blood on his face. She sees no injuries and is momentarily relieved that the blood does not appear to be his.</p><p>He was always so put together in her presence. It's unnerving to see his suit rumpled and a giggle escapes her unwittingly.</p><p>John’s eyes open and he inhales, blinking awake.</p><p>“Are you laughing?” He asks, voice rough from sleep. John pushes himself up in the chair so that he’s fully upright. He rubs a hand over his eyes and it occurs to her that she’s also never seen John actually tired before.</p><p>“Sorry.” She whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “You look like shit.”</p><p>John stares at her incredulously and then a small smile forms on his face. “Yeah, well. Hell of a weekend.”</p><p>“Yeah? Can’t say I did too much.” Helen draws the blankets in a bit tighter.</p><p>“Cold?” John asks and reaches out to touch her forehead. The warm of his hand feels like a godsend and she finds herself leaning into his touch as she nods. “Do you need more blankets?”</p><p>She shakes her head, “Nah, don’t want to overheat.”</p><p>He nods. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>She hums thoughtfully before deciding on “Hungover.”</p><p>“Hungover?” He repeats.</p><p>“Oh, yeah. Definitely. Mouth is dry, a bit nauseous, head is pounding, and I woke up in somebody else’s bed with no memory of how I got there. All signs point to hungover.”</p><p><em>Only Helen</em>, he thinks.</p><p>“I’ll get you some water. Dry mouth and nausea are common with sedation.” He removes his hand, reluctantly, from her face and stands up.</p><p>Helen nods, “Yeah, they sedated me <em>a lot</em>.”</p><p>John stops at the way she says it, turning before he can get her water. “What do you mean?”</p><p> “They sedated me whenever I was annoying. And I was <em>very</em> annoying.”</p><p>He feels his nails biting into his palm as he inhales sharply, “You know, provoking your kidnappers isn’t a great idea, right?”</p><p>“I didn’t provoke them. Just went all psycho-dynamic on their asses.”</p><p>John blinks. “Freud?”</p><p>“Mhmm. Most of his shit’s been disproven, but nobody likes being told their main problems in life come from their mommy issues. And DeLuca has a shit ton of mommy issues.”</p><p>John opens his mouth and closes it. There’s nothing to say to that right now so he turns on foot and heads back to the bathroom. He fills a cup with water while looking into the mirror.</p><p>She was right. He did look like shit. His hair hadn’t been combed, he had bags under his eyes. There’s blood on his face, in his hair, and on his clothes. His suit was rumpled.</p><p>He probably should have showered and changed while Helen slept off the sedation but he couldn’t bear to leave her side. No, instead he had collapsed into the chair and barely moved for nine hours, drifting in and out of sleep now that she was safe.</p><p>He tried not to give too much thought to the fact that Helen was in his bed.</p><p>Helen. Was in. His bed.</p><p>Sleeping in his bed.</p><p>Now awake in his bed.</p><p>John swallows. He <em>can’t </em>think about it. He has to focus on the matter at hand.</p><p>DeLuca is still out there and, until he is taken care of, Helen is still in danger.</p><p>Exhaling, he heads back to the bedroom and tries to ignore the way his heart races at seeing Helen propped amongst his pillows.</p><p>She smiles at him. She shouldn’t be, he thinks. He’s the one who got her into this mess but there she is, quiet and non-judgmental. Smiling at him the way she always does, accepting the water from he hands her.</p><p>She drinks it down with a soft moan that his body isn’t prepared for. Helen sets what is left of the water on the side table. She reaches up and pushes back her hair, her fingers getting stuck in the mess. So goes three days without a shower or a hairbrush.</p><p>“Thanks.” She says, looking up at him.</p><p>John nods, “I had the Doctor stop by last night when I got you home. He left meds in case your head hurts.”</p><p>Helen nods, “I didn’t feel that during the first few sedations but it’s throbbing now.”</p><p>“You don’t remember getting it?” John asks, grabbing the meds off his bureau. He pours one out into his hand and caps it as he walks over to her.</p><p>“Getting what?” She reaches to her face, her fingers trailing until they reach her bandage. She winces at the touch, “Oh. Yeah, forgot about that.”</p><p>“What happened?” John asked as he handed her the pills and the water from her table.</p><p>Helen tries to push up so she can fully sit. She winces at her own weakened state and John moves closer, moving an arm around her to help her sit up against the headboard. He tries not to focus too much on the way she feels with his arm around her.</p><p>When she’s upright, he hands her the meds.</p><p>She swallows the pill, chasing it with what was left of her water. “The guys who were watching me got a call that you were coming and they needed to move me. They were going to sedate me for the move, so I tried to run when they opened the cell. I made it to the stairs but one of them grabbed my foot and I fell.”</p><p>He regrets asking almost instantly, if only because the rage swelling inside him is incapacitating. The fact that he killed the men who tried to move her is suddenly not enough. He wants them to suffer, to hurt. He should have made them die screaming.</p><p>But, at the time, his only concern had been getting Helen to safety.</p><p>And now they were dead, and as much as he wished it, he couldn’t bring them back just to kill them all again.</p><p>But the others would pay.</p><p>Anyone else who took part in stalking them, kidnapping her, guarding her. DeLuca would suffer.</p><p>John feels a hand on his and she asks, “Do we need to do some meditations here, or are you good?”</p><p>Nothing like Helen’s no bullshit policy to pull him back into the presence.</p><p>“I’m here.” She says softly when he’s back with her, her hand squeezing his, “I’m here and I’m safe.”</p><p>He swallows at the feeling of her soft hand, wrapped around his in comfort.</p><p>She was just kidnapped, sedated multiple times, and subject to DeLuca firsthand. If anybody had the right to be losing grip of reality right now, it was her. Instead, she was doing what she always did and taking care of him.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be. We all have our ways of coping. I insert humor into bizarre situations, you picture killing people with your bare hands. Whatever gets us through the day, right?”</p><p>He’s pretty sure that’s not a therapeutically appropriate response but he breathes a little easier for hearing it. She’s ridiculous and he loves her.</p><p>He loves her so much and he came so close to losing her.</p><p>“Thank you for coming after me.” She says and it breaks him all the more.</p><p>She shouldn’t be thanking him. It was <em>his fault</em> she had been taken. His obsession which had grown out of control, his lack of focus that stopped him from seeing that others were following her.</p><p>He should be on his knees begging for forgiveness and, for anyone else, he might have to. But there was no blame in her eyes. No judgement.</p><p>She wasn’t even looking at him any different than when they met each week.</p><p>And because he’s not sure how he can begin to apologize for something so unforgiveable, he asks, “Did you doubt I would?”</p><p>“Not for a second.” Comes her gentle reply.</p><p>Her faith in him is far more than he deserves.</p><p>“We kept coming up with dead ends.” He says softly, beseechingly. Like he hopes that she’ll understand that he’s so fucking sorry. “He didn’t give a name. Only a job. And I kept searching, but he was like a ghost. I didn’t know what to do and then I got this text from an unknown number--”</p><p>“From Nick.”</p><p>John blinks, “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Nick. One of the guys guarding me. Won a bet with two of the guards and told them I’d ask you not to kill them if I could use their phone. So no killing Nick Russo or Frankie Morelli.”</p><p>"That was you?"</p><p>She inclines her head.</p><p>He’s not quite sure what to do with that new wealth of information. The fact that she was able to convince her guards to let her have a phone, that she made a bet with them, and she had bargained with said guards for their lives…</p><p>John knew Helen well enough to know she wasn’t going to fall apart easily but there was a difference between keeping it together when in a high-stress situation and gaining the upper hand when you have no control.</p><p>“You told the guards I wouldn’t kill them?”</p><p>“I told them I’d <em>ask</em> you not to kill them. I made no guarantees. But, while we’re on the subject, I’d rather you didn’t kill them. Frankie’s basically a baby trying to support his mom and little brothers, and Nick… Nick’s had it rough, but I think we made some real progress addressing his repressed homosexuality.”</p><p>John’s head hurts. It really does.</p><p>All this time, he had been worried about Helen handling being kidnapped. John knew a lot about psychological torture and, sometimes, being trapped in a cage is enough to make you feel like you’d be better off dead.</p><p>But no, Helen had been the one caged, but she had been playing the game as if she were a part of the world.</p><p>“You’re incredible, you know that?”</p><p>She looks up, over those long lashes and it’s almost too much for him to look at her. Baring her battle scars while still looking like an angel as she sits <em>in his bed</em>.</p><p>“I really didn’t do much.”</p><p>“I was losing my mind. Didn’t have a name or any indication of who had you, and you just figured your own way out.”</p><p>“I figured out how to get you a message. I didn’t manage to escape.”</p><p>“You did exactly what you needed to do.” His hand turns in hers, tentatively. Giving her the space to pull away.</p><p>She doesn’t, only pausing to readjust her grip.</p><p>John sits back down, on the edge of the bed. Her hand is in his.</p><p>He doesn’t think he’s ever held hands with someone before.</p><p>“What did he want?” Helen asks after a moment, “In exchange for me, what was DeLuca trying to get?”</p><p>John exhales, “Political advantage. There are very… complex laws associated with the Underworld.”</p><p>“That’s where the High Table comes in, right?”</p><p>He’s pleased that she remembers, “Yes. The High Table is our council, of sorts. There are twelve seats for the twelve largest factions of organized crime. The Russian Mafia, the Chinese Triad, Los Zetas, the Sicilian Mafia, the Camorra. A few other bigwigs, too. But under all these big factions, there are hundreds and thousands of smaller ones, each trying to become a contender. But it’s virtually impossible to uproot one of big ones. Especially the ones run by families. Now, DeLuca belongs to a smaller crime network.”</p><p>“The Syndicate.”</p><p>John nods once, “Yes. Based in Rome but with a branch in New York. Italy already has two very predominant mafias. No one is really looking for a third large contender. DeLuca has it in his head if he can destroy the Camorra, he can gain control of Rome.”</p><p>“Except he lacks the intelligence and commitment to actually run something of that caliber.”</p><p>His lips twitch, “Yes. But, to his credit, he was right. If the D’Antonio family collapsed, it might be impossible for the Camorra to stay afloat. They’d lose their credibility; secrets of the family would go to the grave. A new challenger could rise. Probably not to the level of the High Table, like DeLuca thinks, but enough.”</p><p>Helen nods, piecing it together for herself. “So, DeLuca tried to send you after the Camorra, protecting himself from any backlash.”</p><p>John nods, not quite ready to reveal just how close he had come to openly declaring war against the High Table in order to save her.</p><p>She huffs a small laugh, which leaves John taken aback.</p><p>“DeLuca didn’t come up with that plan.”</p><p>“Oh?” He asks, cocking his head to the side.</p><p>“For something so carefully thought out, that had to have come from his mother.”</p><p>Again, John feels his lips curl into a small smile, “Is this going back to the ‘mommy issues’ you mentioned?”</p><p>Helen nods, “Oh, definitely. That umbilical cord is stretching from Rome to New York. His mom killed his father in order to get him in charge of Syndicate.”</p><p>John blinks, rubbing at his head, willing the dull ache to go away. “Exactly how long did you spend with DeLuca?”</p><p>“He lasted about eight minutes in my charming presence before having me sedated.”</p><p>The <em>I love you</em> on the tip of his tongue goes unsaid.</p><p>“I should start having you run all my mission preps.”</p><p>“You really should.” Helen agrees, closing her eyes as she leans back against the headboard. “But then, who would counsel my rebellious teens, depressed businesspeople, and wayward assassins?”</p><p>“Who indeed.”</p><p>He’s worried about what he has to tell her next.</p><p>John had been so concentrated on finding her that he hadn’t had time to plan out his next steps. There were a few dozen people who had to die to ensure her safety, DeLuca being number one on his list.</p><p>She wasn’t safe so long as DeLuca was alive. And the mobster had gone underground shortly after he had recovered Helen. A smart move on his part, John acknowledges.</p><p>Without DeLuca having Helen, there was nothing to stop John from targeting him.</p><p>But that meant that John had to track him. Hunt him down. Kill him and any other associates who might know about Helen and who she is to John.</p><p>He knew she promised those two guards who helped her that she’d ask him not to kill them and he was… considering it. He didn’t like the possibility of loose ends but saying no to Helen was an impossible task. One he was certain he might never master.</p><p>All in all, there were a few hundred reasons why she couldn’t go back to work.</p><p>There was the injury card he intended to play hard and fast.</p><p>The trauma that she hadn’t processed yet.</p><p>The fact that DeLuca’s whereabouts were unknown.</p><p>And while John was more than willing to stand guard outside her office, it was impractical for both of them.</p><p>He needed time.</p><p>John exhales, bracing himself for the argument that will surely erupt from this. Preparing himself to be strong enough to actually say no to Helen. “You can’t go back to work yet.”</p><p>Without opening her eyes, she says, “Try that again, in the form of a question. I might be more receptive.”</p><p>John swallows, “I can’t—I can’t do what I need to do unless I know that you’re safe. Will you <em>please</em> stay home from work until I can resolve the situation?”</p><p>Her eyes crack open, “How long are we talking?”</p><p>“A few days.”</p><p>He’s certain he can find DeLuca in that amount of time. He already had the Technician running searches remotely, already had Winston with an ear to the ground.</p><p>She was awake now and the last of his worries had been abated. Which meant that John could do what he did best. He could go out to the city. He could take out DeLuca and his soldiers and send her back to her world, knowing she was safe.</p><p>And he’d keep an eye on her. As often as he could manage without putting her at risk again. And he’d let her go.</p><p>His heart already ached at the prospect but what else could he do?</p><p>Helen lets out a small sigh, “Alright. All things considered, I should probably take a few days off anyway.” She inclines her head, “Don’t suppose you happen to have my work phone?”</p><p>John feels his face involuntarily wince, “Um, yeah, about that…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“DeLuca had it. Pretty sure he dropped it somewhere so that it couldn’t be tracked back to him.”</p><p>She rubs at her head but takes it better than he would have. “At least tell me he left my laptop alone?”</p><p>John nods, “I took that just in case. It’s in my car.”</p><p>Her eyes flutter shut again and he can tell she’s fighting the exhaustion.</p><p>“I’ll have to contact my clients for this week.”</p><p>“Later.” John says, giving her hand a soft squeeze. “You need to rest.”</p><p>“I’ve been sleeping for god knows how long.”</p><p>“You’ve been sedated.” He corrects gently, “You’ve slept but you haven’t given yourself space to rest. You’re body’s still reeling from what you’ve been through.”</p><p>Her eyes don’t open but the corner of her lips twitch into a smile, “Look at that. You’ve been doing your homework.”</p><p>“I have a bookshelf dedicated to you.”</p><p> She hums at that, “I’ll want to see that later. And the rest of your library.” She cracks open her eyes, “You’re going to regret letting me into your home, John Wick.”</p><p>He already does, he thinks to himself. It occurs to him that seeing her here, like this, might be something he’s unable to recover from. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep in his bed when the image of her lying there, amongst his pillows and sheets, has been unwittingly branded into his head. He might never get over the feeling of holding her in his arms and carrying her up the stairs and down the hall.</p><p>And it might take him time to track down DeLuca.</p><p>Days in which she’ll eat in his kitchen and lose herself amongst his bookshelves. He can see it now and it tears him apart.</p><p>While he has ceased to believe that life is fair, it’s inordinately cruel to have her like this, in ways he’s only dreamed, only to be forced to cut off contact.</p><p>But what can he do?</p><p>She needs to be here for her own protection but once the threat is eliminated, she needs to be as far away from him as she can be.</p><p>“Get some rest.” He tells her, wondering if the dull ache in his heart would worsen or improve if he left her presence.</p><p>He starts to stand but she holds fast.</p><p>She peers up at him with those big, brown eyes and he’s ready to fall to his knees.</p><p>“Will you hold me? Just for a minute?”</p><p>He really wishes he had it in him to deny her. But he doesn’t.</p><p>He nods and John releases her hand, moving around to the other side of the bed. He crawls over and under the covers which she has lifted for him.</p><p>This isn’t romantic, he tells himself. It’s not sexual or any other perverted pleasure.</p><p>This is comfort, like she’s shown him a hundred thousand times before.</p><p>John tries, hard, to push any other thought from his head and not to concentrate on how small her body feels as he wraps an arm, gently, around her.</p><p>She reaches up and takes hold of his forearm, hugging it to her as she nestles under the covers.</p><p>He hates himself for reveling in delight when she has suffered so much because of <em>him</em>. It’s his fault she was hurt at all, his fault she’s drained from trauma. And he’s the one benefitting, touching her in ways he’s only dreamed about.</p><p>But then, he thinks, he’s been Hell-bound his entire life.</p><p>And, if he’s right about finding DeLuca and tying up loose ends, he’ll only have days left where he can even bask in her presence.</p><p>Maybe, he can have this.</p><p>A minute, an hour of pretending the world wasn’t waiting outside his door. Pretending that this was more than just comfort.</p><p>It might hurt more, in the long run, to know how holding her feels like. But John can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>……………………………</p><p>He’s not sure when he fell asleep but it’s the dull vibrating of his phone on wood that wakes him up.</p><p>For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, what he was doing. He forgot her soft request for him to hold her while she fell asleep, keeping her safe and comforted after the ordeal.</p><p>All he can smell is her. She’s warmer now and, while usually heat makes him uncomfortable while he sleeps, it was different with her.</p><p>Helen had turned, at some point, her face now buried in his chest, her body curled into his while both his arms hold her tight.</p><p>A part of him wishes to stay like that forever.</p><p>But the phone buzzes again.</p><p>Helen stirs in his arms and he’s simultaneously in awe that she’s real and pissed that somebody is calling, waking her.</p><p>He disentangles his limbs from hers and she whines softly as John rises from the bed, tiptoeing quickly. He snatches the phone and hurries from the room, closing the door behind him.</p><p>Marcus.</p><p>“Yeah?” John answers, walking down the hall to the nook that overlooks the rest of the house, just above the stairs. He rests a hand on the balcony edge and leans down.</p><p>“You know I prefer to mind my own business whenever I can.”</p><p>John finds himself blinking at the unusual greeting. “Yes. It’s one of the few reasons I put up with you.”</p><p>Marcus hums at that, “I hate to ask, John, but what the <em>fuck</em> is going on?”</p><p>He stands up a little straighter, eyes narrowing, “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since the contract came out.”</p><p>John’s stomach drops.</p><p><em>Surely, </em>he thinks, <em>DeLuca isn’t that stupid…</em></p><p>“What contract?” He forces himself to ask.</p><p>“Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Helen Kingston.” John thinks he might throw up but Marcus continues, “As far as anybody can tell, she’s a civilian but under known allies, you're listed.”</p><p>John swears, pushing his hair back from his face. Any remnants of sleepiness are now gone as he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the basement.</p><p>“When did it go live?”</p><p>“Half an hour ago. I’ve already fielded half a dozen calls from people trying to get information on who she is.”</p><p>“What’d you tell them?” John asks, propping the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he grabs a case for his handguns and a duffle for ammo. He opens each and begins selecting from vast array that hung on his wall.</p><p>“I didn’t tell them anything. I just asked them all if they really wanted to take the chance of going after a target who could be related, in any way, to John Wick.”</p><p>“How much is the bounty?”</p><p>“Four million.”</p><p>A string of swears escape.</p><p>Four million was considered a high price for a life. A payout of that amount, in a single kill, was usually reserved for difficult cases. Government officials with bodyguards or military targets trained to kill.</p><p>A four-million-dollar bounty on a civilian would be impossible for most assassins in the greater New York area to pass up. Even with him listed as an ally.</p><p>“Who is she, John?”</p><p>“Honestly?” John checks, emptying a shelf of various size rounds into the duffle bag, “She’s my therapist.”</p><p>He’s met with silence and John can’t help but smirk at rendering Marcus speechless. Funny, considering it was only two days ago when telling Winston a fucking nightmare.</p><p>“You know, I was joking all those times I told you to seek professional help.”</p><p>John shorts, “Yeah, well. Too late.”</p><p>“So now half of New York City is out looking for your therapist?”</p><p>“Seems so.”</p><p>He can almost feel Marcus rolling his eyes despite the distance between them, “Why would anybody target your therapist? In fact, I’m inclined to call her up and offer her a raise if she can make you less fucked in the head.”</p><p>“It’s complicated.”</p><p>“Isn’t it always?” Marcus huffs a sigh, “Any idea where she is? The contract went live half an hour ago. I’m sure somebody’s already after her.”</p><p>“Upstairs.”</p><p>“She’s at your house?”</p><p>John zips the bag with the ammo shut. “Also complicated.”</p><p>John closes the lid on the gun case. He has a handful of Kevlar vests packed away in a trunk. He hoists out a few and drapes them over his shoulder as he grabs the case and the bag.</p><p> “Clearly. You know, I’m pretty sure fucking your therapist is an ethics violation of some kind.”</p><p>John ignores the comment. “Fancy earning a marker?” He asks, heading back up the stairs and crossing the large expansive living room to get to the front door.</p><p>“Depends. How much work am I going to have to do?”</p><p>“Minimal.” John lifts the trunk of his car and starts rearranging things. “Babysitting while I take care of the idiot who thought targeting her was a good idea.”</p><p>Marcus hums, thinking it over. “Is she going to be a pain in the ass?”</p><p>“Most definitely. She’ll have you mindfucked so fast you won’t know up from down.”</p><p>“Not doing a great job of selling it.”</p><p>John closes the trunk and walks quickly back into the house. He still has to pack clothes; food.</p><p>“I can almost guarantee no bodily harm <em>and </em>you won’t be bored. That’s a rare combination.”</p><p>Marcus grumbles for a moment but John didn’t doubt him. “Text me where I need to be.”</p><p>“Make sure you’re not followed.”</p><p>Marcus snorts in a way to signify <em>no fucking shit</em> and the call drops.</p><p>John lets out a breath as he hits the kitchen. While he’s bugged out in the army, bugged out from squatting, and run away more times than he could count, he’s never had to pack like this in his house. It’s almost unnerving to be choosing food from a fully stocked kitchen rather than grabbing the jar of peanut butter as he runs.</p><p>Fucking DeLuca.</p><p>What the hell was that bastard thinking?</p><p>John had already wanted him dead for daring to touch Helen and now this?</p><p>What could this possibly do for him? Four-million-dollars was a lot to spend on revenge and, while the smaller mobs did well for themselves, most didn’t just have that kind of money sitting around.</p><p>DeLuca’s reasoning, however, was the least of John’s concerns as he packed up his kitchen.</p><p>He had safehouses all over the globe, most listed under different names. A handful over the tristate area but he was reluctant to have Helen that close to the hub of assassins now gunning for her.</p><p>Fuck. He stops bagging up boxes of energy bars and pauses.</p><p>How the hell was he going to tell Helen there was a four-million-dollar bounty on her head?</p><p>
  <em>Hey, remember that conversation we had earlier where I told you I would take care of DeLuca with a couple days? Well, now a couple hundred assassins are looking for you, so that plan is off the table. Sorry!</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t know how the fuck he’s going to explain this new round of bullshit and goes back to grabbing boxes of crackers and bags of rice.</p><p>“Are you… packing up your kitchen?” He doesn’t startle easy, but he hadn’t even heard her on the stairs.</p><p>John turns, in surprise, and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest.</p><p>Helen, hair wet from the shower, had traded in the nightgown for one of his white, cotton shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, drawstrings pulled tight, then folded several times over.</p><p> Her skin, still damp, forces the shirt to cling to her.</p><p>He looks away, “Yeah.”</p><p>“Is this some sort of weird coping ritual or did the shit hit the fan?”</p><p>John almost hates the way she can read him so easily.</p><p>“Shit hit the fan.” He says, glancing over his shoulder, gauging for reaction.</p><p>There isn’t one. Not really. She just nods, and honestly, he wishes that she would try to protest or argue or roll her eyes. Anything. Blame him, yell at him. Complain about the situation, whine and ask why they had to move but she doesn’t.</p><p>“When are we leaving?” She asks.</p><p>“Fifteen minutes.”</p><p>Again, she just nods, “Want to point me in the direction of your library? I’d like to raid it before we bug out.”</p><p>The casualness in her voice makes his head and heart hurt. She shouldn’t be this accepting.</p><p>He swallows back the urge to start an argument because that is the last thing they need when people are searching for her.</p><p>“Top of the stairs, just off of the little alcove.”</p><p>She spins on her heels, like nothing is wrong.</p><p>John forces himself back to packing. Time, it seems, is always against them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Imagine Being Loved By Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John packs up quickly, filling the car pretty much to the brim, holding on to the knowledge that he really doesn’t know when he’ll come back.</p><p>By putting a contract out on Helen, it was no longer a matter of killing DeLuca and ending this. The contract was open. Whether he was dead or alive, people would come for her.</p><p>And while dead was the only way John wanted to see Mateo DeLuca, the fact remained that only he could remove the bounty on Helen. DeLuca, he thinks, or the High Table.</p><p>But the High Table wasn’t going to give a shit that Helen Kingston was a civilian. That she hadn’t done anything.</p><p>A hit was a hit.</p><p>He isn’t sure how he’s going to fix this.</p><p>John goes back down to the basement, to his workshop, and found a book hidden among the masses. It’s a newer book that stands out among his bookbinding collection. Larger than most.</p><p>He selects it and heads back to the main floor. John lays it open and takes out his phone to prepare to send the message.</p><p>As technology got better, so had hackers. Even phones issued by the Continental were subject to being hacked or tracked. He, Marcus, and Sofia had set up a failsafe years ago.</p><p>Even if the phone was hacked, it would take years to crack the code they came up with.</p><p>He opens the book and finds the first letter he needs, capitalized. He types in the page number, followed by the line that the word is located on, and finally counts out how many words into the line it is.</p><p>John hears Helen’s footsteps on the stairs and spares a glance upward. She has a tower of books piled into her little hands. He withholds a smirk and instead, shakes his head. “Just those?”</p><p>“This is as many as I can safely carry.” She replies, walking towards him and setting the books on the side of the table, “But rest assured, I’ll be back to steal more.”</p><p>He says nothing to that because he can say nothing. Every plan he’s had is screwed up now. His original thought, to separate himself from her, is in shambles now that every assassin in New York knows her name.</p><p>She peeks at his phone, “Is that an Ottendorf cipher?”</p><p>John feels himself inhale sharply. Why does she have to know that?</p><p>It’s such a small thing, really, but she says something like that and his heart starts to stutter in his chest, making him all the more aware of just how much he loves her. He loves her and he can’t have her.</p><p>But she says that and he’s lost.</p><p>“Yes, but modified. Do I want to know how you know about Ottendorf’s?” John asks, instead.</p><p>“I was a paranoid child.” She says, glancing over the book he has chosen, lifting the cover without closing the page to better assess. “All my childhood diaries were written in some kind of code.” She glances up at him, a small smile on her face, “I made up my own cipher when I was fourteen to pass notes to my friends in  high school.”</p><p>It occurs to him that she’s never mentioned her own childhood before. Of course, he knows a bit. Between his actual stalking and the time spent on the Continental database, finding every piece of information on Helen Kingston, he was bound to find some things.</p><p>Like citations from Elementary school where she got her class to mutiny against a teacher or the handful of detentions she got for backtalk. </p><p>But they’ve never talked about her early life before.</p><p>Their lines had always been blurred but this was one they hadn’t crossed.</p><p>John glances back to his book, “Quite the little rebel.”</p><p>She shrugs, “We talked about it last week. What are rules in the face of meaninglessness?”</p><p>“And here I thought we were stepping away from nihilism.”</p><p>“<em>You’re </em>stepping away from nihilism.” She corrects, “I’m quite content with the idea that there’s no plan or grand design.”</p><p>His lips twitch, “There’s still some food left in the kitchen if you want to grab something before we go.”</p><p>She hoists her books back up, “Alright. I’m going to drop these in the car first.”</p><p>John nods, continuing to compose his message. The Ottendorf cipher was difficult to crack because not only did you need the right book, you needed the right edition, the right printing. It was also a bitch to decode because it required time and accuracy. He, Marcus, and Sofia even took it a step farther by using the first letter of every word rather than using the word itself and often wrote in shorthand.</p><p>That said, it was a bitch to put together.</p><p>He manages to type out the address of his safehouse and hits send.</p><p>John types up a quick message to Winston that he was going off the grid until further notice as he goes back up the stairs. He changes quickly, forgoing the suit for something more casual. Jeans and a t-shirt are oddly discomforting but a three-piece suit would stick out in the middle of nowhere.</p><p>Once changed, he checks his phone one last time before powering down.</p><p>By the time he finishes, Helen is outside, leaning against the car, eating an apple.</p><p>He makes a mental note that they’ll need to stop and pick her up some new clothes because the sight of her dressed in his makes it hard to breathe.</p><p>“Ready?” He asks.</p><p>She nods, pushing off the car and opening the passenger side door. “Do I want to know about the matching holes in the windows?” She asks as she climbs in.</p><p>“Probably not.” He admits.</p><p>Helen shoots him a smirk as she buckles in. He’s grateful when she dives into one of the books she had brought rather than asking him questions. He’s still not sure how to broach the subject.</p><p>She knows something is wrong, he’s certain, but she hasn’t <em>asked</em>.</p><p>Not that he’s offered information. He wants to keep it from her, to protect her for just a little bit longer but he can’t. It’s not fair to her.</p><p>Every so often, he catches her looking up from her book, checking road signs and overhead passes that give off locations, directions.</p><p>Her curiosity is palpable but, even now, she’s playing the therapist. Not pushing, just waiting for him to get there on his own.</p><p>It’s not right. She shouldn’t have to do all the work for them. He tries to bring it up, pushes himself to say something, anything, the next time she looks around curiously.</p><p>Half an hour passes.</p><p>Then an hour.</p><p>Then two.</p><p>He gives himself until the clock on the dashboard hits the hour mark. Then he watches as that arbitrary deadline passes, too.</p><p>At quarter past, she looks up at one of the signs and he forces himself to choke out the word, “Vermont.”</p><p>Helen looks over at him, an eyebrow raised. “Vermont?” She repeats.</p><p>He nods, “I have a safehouse there.”</p><p>She looks back at the road ahead of them, “Are you ready to talk about it?”</p><p><em>No</em>, he thinks. But it doesn’t matter. They need to talk about it. She needs to know what’s going on.</p><p>What was the expression she used? Quick, like a band aid?</p><p>“DeLuca put a hit on you.”</p><p>He glances over, gauging for a reaction and is met with a simple nod. “How much?”</p><p><em>That</em>, John thinks, should not be her primary concern but he answers anyway, “Four million.”</p><p>That makes her head shoot up, repeating the number while staring at him, “Four million dollars?”</p><p>He nods, once.</p><p>“Jesus.” She mutters, shaking her head, “For four million, I’m tempted to turn myself in.”</p><p>John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, “That’s not funny.”</p><p>“I’m not laughing.” Helen rubs at her temple, “Fuck.”</p><p>That about covered it, John thinks.</p><p>He waits. She’s kept it together this long but news of a bounty on her head has to be enough to snap her out of the idle calm she’s been sitting in. He waits for her try cry or get angry or scream but, no. She shakes her head and looks back to the book on her lap.</p><p>He can’t help himself. “Seriously?” He asks, looking between Helen and the road, “You have a four-million-dollar bounty on your head.”</p><p>“Yes.” She agrees.</p><p>“There are hundreds of assassins looking for you right now.”</p><p>“I gathered.”</p><p>“Helen…” he cuts himself off, before he says something stupid.</p><p>She closes the book and leans back, facing him the best she can in the moving vehicle. “Do you think it would help?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you think it would help if I broke down right now? If I started crying, do you think it would help either of us? Freaking out will not help me handle everything that’s going on. And it won’t affect the guilt that you’re clearly experiencing from something, and I can’t emphasize this enough, was beyond your control.”</p><p>He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as he searches for how to respond to her, “You’ve been kidnapped.”</p><p>“Mhmm.”</p><p>“Held hostage, sedated, been forced to play mind games with mobsters,”</p><p>“Seems like it was only yesterday.”</p><p>“And <em>now</em> you have a four-million-dollar hit out for you and you’ve barely reacted!”</p><p>She shrugs. She fucking shrugs and John wants to pull off to the side of the road and fucking <em>shake </em>her just to see if that sets her off.</p><p>“We all process things differently, John.”</p><p>“What have you processed?” He asks, unable to keep the frustration from his voice, “You’ve been eerily calm this entire time!”</p><p>She waves a hand, “I started processing it before it even happened. Maybe, if it had been completely out of the blue, I might have had a more visceral reaction. But let’s be real: this was going to happen at some point or another.”</p><p>“You were going to be kidnapped at some point or another?” He asks incredulously.</p><p>“Given the circumstances, it isn’t a large jump.” She points out. “You’re the Boogeyman. You might not understand all the fear people have when it comes to you but you recognize it. Fuck, I saw firsthand how terrified of you DeLuca’s men are. But you don’t present with a lot of exploitable weaknesses. And, regardless of how I entered the picture, it’s easy to see we have unhealthy boundaries.”</p><p>It takes him nearly a minute to process everything that she says and, when he does, he’s shaken.</p><p>“You’re saying you knew you were going to be kidnapped because we supposedly have unhealthy boundaries?”</p><p>Another shrug, “I wasn’t blind to the possibility that I could be targeted as a way to get to you. And there’s nothing supposedly about it. Our therapeutic relationship has been fucked since the beginning.”</p><p>John does a doubletake and looks over at her. “No, it hasn’t.”</p><p>Helen snorts, “One month in, I told you to forgo Tarasov V. Regents. A single phone call from you and I could have had my license revoked and my practice disbanded.”</p><p>“Isn’t trust the basis of a good therapeutic alliance?”</p><p>“There’s <em>trust</em> and then there’s putting my career in your hands. But if you don’t think that’s enough to indicate our God-awful boundaries, we could talk about your late-night stalking habits.”</p><p>John’s head flies to look at her.</p><p>“Traffic, John.”</p><p>He swerves and narrowly misses driving off the road.</p><p>His mind reels. She’d never mentioned it before and neither of them has ever brought it up. He operated somewhere between the assumptions that she didn’t know and that she would never mention it if she did.</p><p>He asks gruffly, “What did DeLuca tell you?”</p><p>She snorts at that, “Please. DeLuca doesn’t see nuances. He’s just convinced we’re sleeping together.”</p><p>“Then how--?”</p><p>Helen glances over, her voice softening, “Give me some credit here, John.”</p><p>He swallows, “How long have you known?”</p><p>“Five months.”</p><p>Since the beginning.</p><p>He watches the road, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his heart, the hairs on his arms that are standing on end, and the tension filling his body.</p><p>He’s unable to look at her. He wonders if he’ll ever again be able to look at her, knowing that she knew. This whole time, she actually knew.</p><p>How many times had she asked him if he was planning for a late night, supplying him with coffee, all the while knowing that his late night was going to end sneaking into her home and watching her sleep?</p><p>And she had known? For five months?</p><p>And no, John Wick wasn’t the kind of man you took a restraining order out against, but she knows him better than <em>anyone</em>. One word from her and he would have disappeared.</p><p>Morbid curiosity and confusion get the better of him. “You never said anything.”</p><p>“You would have stopped.”</p><p>It really isn’t fair, John decides, that she can read him like a book despite his prevarications and evasions. But she answers him, and he can barely understand her.</p><p>“And that would have been a bad thing?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone.</p><p>“I weighed the pros and cons.”</p><p>Now John can’t help but look at her. Calm as ever, her eyes remain kind and non-judgmental. “You weighed the pros and cons.” He repeats.</p><p>She nods, once, and John really isn’t sure what the hell kind of pros she came up with to sit back and just let that happen.</p><p>“Do you really want to have this conversation right now?” She doesn’t sound exasperated, only concerned. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to pull the steering wheel out if we keep going.”</p><p>He considers it, but John is pretty certain that the only thing worse than talking about it would be to stop. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to sit in his anxiety now that it was known.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“To having the conversation or to yanking out the steering wheel?”</p><p>He shoots her a look but is a bit relieved that she’s still making jokes. She gives him a smile.</p><p>“I figured it out fairly quickly, I think.” She admits, “I woke up one night and just had a gut feeling that I wasn’t alone. Saw your reflection in the window but it was the middle of the night, and I was tired, and so I just went back to sleep.”</p><p>“Probably shouldn’t have been your first instinct.”</p><p>He doesn’t even have to look to know that she is rolling her eyes again, “You really want to start talking about instincts and poor decision making?”</p><p>She has him there.</p><p>“Anyway, you were gone when I woke up. At first, I thought it might just be a one-off. You’re a paranoid bastard. It made sense that you wanted to see where I live, gain a little bit of perspective. Trust that I wasn’t some sort of sleeper agent out to kill you or some shit. But then you came back.” She looks back to the road, almost thoughtfully. “And you kept coming back. So, I sat down and thought out a list of pros and cons.”</p><p>“And the pros outweighed the cons?” The disbelief is apparent in his tone.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>This, John thinks, has to be the most surreal conversation he’s ever had in his life. Casually talking about the pros and cons of stalking his therapist, with his therapist. Only for said therapist to decide that there were more pros than cons.</p><p>“What possible pros did you find?” He asks more out of interest than validation.</p><p>“What would you have done if I addressed it in session?”</p><p>He blinks at her answering his question with a question. Truth be told, he’s not sure what he would have done but walk out and never come back seems like the most likely.</p><p>“You would have run.” She says, matter-of-factly but somehow still manages to make it sound nonjudgmental. “Which, given your history of disorganized attachment, is perfectly understandable. But, it would have been a drastic step that would have pushed you farther away from the healing process.”</p><p>“After all this,” John bites, “You still think I can be healed?”</p><p>“We've talked about this before, John. There is no "perfect healing" when it comes to trauma. Things can and they will come back up. But I think that you can get to a point where you can let go of the things that have haunted you for so long.” She lets out a breath, “But nobody can get there on their own.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “And healing me is worth having your space violated?”</p><p>She huffs, “Believe it or not, it isn’t all about you, John.” He glances over and she shrugs. “I— I sleep better on nights you were there.” Helen pauses, then adds, “You keep the nightmares at bay.”</p><p>Her words cut him like any knife, but he feels it so much deeper than any cut.</p><p><em>Nightmares</em>.</p><p>His thoughts seem to erupt in too many directions at once for him to even follow?</p><p>
  <em>Nightmares?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She’s known for so long.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She sleeps better when I’m there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What does she have nightmares about?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How the hell have I never noticed that she has nightmares?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not like she would’ve fucking told you. She’s your therapist.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But she says I keep the nightmares away…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She know; she knows; she knows.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What the fuck is wrong with me?</em>
</p><p>He can’t handle it, can’t process it right now. Especially while driving. He needs a moment. Or a few thousand.</p><p>How can someone’s presence simultaneously sustain him and destroy him?</p><p>They pass a highway sign advertising food, gas, and lodging.</p><p>It wouldn’t hurt to fill up the tank. They still had hours to go.  And she needs food. Real food, more than just an apple.</p><p>“Can you eat?”</p><p>She smirks knowingly at the abrupt change in conversation, “Yeah. Probably should.”</p><p>He nods to himself, pulling off on the exit ramp. Focusing on finding food, on providing, was much easier than letting himself sit in his own thoughts.</p><p>But even as he switches focuses, keeping an eye out for one of the places advertised, he can still hear her in his mind.</p><p>
  <em>Your abrupt change in subject indicates that you’re afraid. Are you afraid, John?</em>
</p><p>They both knew the answer to that. He was fucking terrified.</p><p>He catches sight of a diner and pulls into the parking lot. They’re far enough from the city that he isn’t too concerned that anyone from his world will see them, but he hasn’t put it out of his head that he could have been followed. Even watching the rearview constantly hadn’t helped to ease the paranoia that came after having Helen taken.</p><p>John puts the car into park and Helen shoots him a grin, gesturing to her outfit. She’s still wearing his shirt and sweatpants, drawn tight. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m hard-core scrubbing it.”</p><p>He blinks, “I don’t know what that means.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes and gets out of the car, “Come on, John.”</p><p>He follows her into the diner, which boldly advertises breakfast all day. He keeps his eyes peeled and steps directly into the space behind her as he assesses the patrons.</p><p>A few bikers, a teenage group of friends, and two couples. It was late enough that the actual dinner rush had died down.</p><p>“Stay close to me.” He mutters and she shoots him a look over his shoulder, as if to say, <em>seriously?</em></p><p>He nods.</p><p>Helen rolls her eyes but murmurs, “Fine.”</p><p>“Two?” A waitress asks.</p><p>“Yes.” Helen replies as John nods once, adding, “The back booth, please.”</p><p>She gives him a look, as well, but grabs two menus and gestures with her head for them to follow. Helen starts to sit on the near side of the table but John gives her a tap. She sighs quietly but goes to the far side, against the wall, and scoots into the booth. John sits next to her.</p><p>“You want anything to drink?”</p><p>“Just water, please.”</p><p>“Coffee.” John says.</p><p>The waitress walks away and Helen leans into the corner, “We’re hours away from your place; hours from the city. Do you really think we’re going to run into trouble here?”</p><p>“I’m not taking any chances.”</p><p>“I’d roll my eyes but if I keep doing that, I’m afraid they’ll get stuck.”</p><p>He shoots her a look and pushes the menu towards her. Helen only grins in response but takes the menu and looks it over.</p><p>He peruses it idly before turning his attention back to the people in the diner.</p><p>The teenagers looked normal but he had been trained to kill when he was their age. No one blended in quite like a teen.</p><p>The bikers had plates from South Dakota. He had checked all the license plates on their way inside. How many assassins lived a nomadic lifestyle?</p><p>Fuck, there had been a time where John, himself, had lived like that. Riding under the hot sun, funding his travels by killing at night.</p><p>The couples seemed inconspicuous but there was nothing to indicate that it was anything more than a cover. How often had he posed with Sofia as a couple on complicated cases?</p><p>The waitress comes back with his coffee and her water and he’s sick to his stomach, thinking of a thousand ways they could be poisoned.</p><p>“Know what you want?”</p><p>Helen orders first, offering a kind smile to the older woman.</p><p><em>She’s so trusting</em>, he thinks, and that terrifies him.</p><p>“And you, hon?” She asks John.</p><p>“The southwestern hash.” He pushes his and Helen’s menus across the table and the waitress takes them, eyeing him.</p><p>Was the waitress a part of the Underworld? A spy for people leaving New York?</p><p>Had he made a mistake by choosing some place only a few hours out from the city?</p><p>But she turns and walks away.</p><p>Everything else has him on edge.</p><p>He acknowledges that he’s paranoid as he picks up his coffee and swallows it down. The burning almost helps to alleviate the frustration.</p><p>Over the course of the weekend, he’d lost her. He’d lost the woman he loved to an unknown enemy; had clung to the idea of finding her to keep him going. And Helen had managed to save herself. And things weren’t fixed by getting her to safety, but they were better.</p><p>And now, DeLuca was pulling this new shit.</p><p>While most of the older, more disciplined assassins were smart enough not to go up against him, he wasn’t naïve to think others wouldn’t come.</p><p>He had been a young, stupid assassin once, after all.</p><p>He’d made his share of stupid decisions trying to make a name for himself.</p><p>And what better way to make a name for one’s self than to go up against a renowned assassin?</p><p>He remembered his training well.</p><p>The Director had beaten it into their heads: it only takes one bullet.</p><p>One well-aimed bullet, one perfect blow with a knife and even the best would fall.</p><p>John would die for Helen, happily, a thousand times over. But things were fucked and dying for her wouldn’t be enough to keep her safe with a bounty on her head.</p><p>And he didn’t know where DeLuca was.</p><p>He didn’t know what it would take to remove the bounty and—</p><p>Her hand lands on his thigh and he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. Quickly, he sets it down, glancing over to her.</p><p>Her hand is on his thigh.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Tell me five things you can see.” She says and he knows better than to ask questions when she’s using that sort of tone.</p><p>He blinks, swallowing as he looks around, “Uh, there are thirteen people in this room, aside from us. There’s the exit sign. A clock. An old license plate on the wall. And you.”</p><p>“Four things you can feel.”</p><p>“The seat we’re on. The scratch of denim. The air circulating. Your hand.” He tries to keep his voice from breaking at the last. <em>Her hand is on his thigh.</em></p><p>“Three things you can hear.”</p><p>He listens, intently. “Murmur of conversation. The sounds from the kitchen. Coffee being poured.”</p><p>He can tell what she is doing. Simultaneously distracting him from his paranoia and grounding him in the moment.</p><p>“Two things you can smell.”</p><p>John breathes in and stutters on the exhale. There are many scents in the diner that he can distinguish, but none more powerful than her. Bathed in his shampoo, his body wash from her shower. She smells like he does and it makes his head go a little fuzzy when he thinks too much about it.</p><p>He swallows, deciding he is <em>not</em> going to say that. “Uh, I smell the grease from the kitchen. And my coffee.”</p><p>“And one thing you can taste.”</p><p>“The coffee.” He says, before he can start to think of what he wants to taste.</p><p>“Good,” Helen praises and she squeezes his thigh, “Are you with me?”</p><p>“I’m here.” He wonders if he’s flushed.</p><p>Helen had, once again, pulled him out of his head. Stopped him from going down a darker path and it wasn’t right, he thinks, that Helen is having to calm him down.</p><p>“Are you?” She asks, raising her hand from his lap up to his face. She cups his jaw and turns his head to face hers, “Because you look like you’re still lost in your head.”</p><p>“I’m sorr—”</p><p>“Don’t be. You have no reason to be sorry, John.”</p><p>He doesn’t deserve her. Not her love, not her friendship. Not even her help. She’s too good for him, but now, neither of them have a choice. He got her into this mess and now she won’t survive without him.</p><p>“This is my fault.”</p><p>“I’m not exactly blameless, John.” She removes her hand and he immediately mourns the loss of her touch, “<em>I </em>kept you on as a client even after knowing what you do. <em>I </em>knew you were sneaking into my house at night and I didn’t do anything to stop your or dissuade you. I’m positive that I don’t have the best security at my house.”</p><p>“It’s not the same th—"</p><p>“<em>John</em>.” She interrupts him again, “Look, we can go back and forth for eternity about where the blame goes. But it’s not going to do us any good because, ultimately, it lies with DeLuca.”</p><p>Helen pauses, giving him a moment to ingest what she has just said, before she adds, “I know you’re not used to being scared. And I know it feels like a lifetime since things have been out of your control. But everything is going to be okay.”</p><p>“You can’t know that.”</p><p>“I can. Because no matter what happens, no matter what horrors and traumas we face, no matter what loss we experience, we still get up in the morning. We figure things out, we adjust our tactics, and we do what we have to.”</p><p>He almost believes her but his fear lingers.</p><p>He offers a small smile, “Is that how you managed to stay so calm when DeLuca had you?”</p><p>She smiles back, adding teasingly, “I figured you’d be stressed enough for the both of us.”</p><p>John relaxes his posture, still on guard but no longer feeling fight or flight instincts that had been drowning him since their arrival.</p><p>Their waitress walks over and Helen calmly smiles, thanking her as they’re passed their dinners.</p><p>John waits until the waitress has gone to respond, “I’ve had missions go south, but not being able to find you, not knowing who had you…” he shakes his head.</p><p>“You <em>crave</em> control.” Helen says understandingly, “With your life, in general, of course. But primarily, over your emotions. So you ignore them until something sends you into overdrive.”</p><p>“What’s the solution there?”</p><p>She reaches over with her fork and snatches a bit of hash from his plate, “No easy fixes, unfortunately. We’ve already talked about rational verse irrational thoughts. The next step would be directly talking about your reactive attachment but I don’t think you’re fully ready to address that.” Helen tells him as she pops it into her mouth.</p><p>“What the fuck is reactive attachment?”</p><p>She swallows, “One day, I’ll let you read your file.” She takes a sip of her water, “Okay, attachment crash course: attachment is, basically, the bond that develops from person to person. It starts when you’re a baby and the relationships that you have in your early years tend to be large indicators for the rest of your life.</p><p>“Babies have needs that have to be met: being clothed, being fed, changed, and cuddled. When these needs are met by a consistent caregiver, babies start to develop trust. They can recognize their caregiver, they feel secure in knowing that, even if their person leaves them, they’ll come back.</p><p>“But, these needs aren’t always met. And, when kids don’t form secure attachments, it effects their relationships growing up. If not addressed and treated early, it transitions into adulthood.”</p><p>John couldn’t remember that far back but he still remembered the tribe. The orphans were taken care of. They weren’t abandoned but they sure as hell hadn’t been loved, either. He remembered, not too long before he was sent to live under the Director’s care, being in the orphanage and telling one of the little ones to stop crying.</p><p>Nobody cared.</p><p>It was best to learn that lesson early than to waste tears on someone who would never come.</p><p>“And what does that look like?” John asks.</p><p>“Being withdrawn from social interaction; not asking for help when you need it because you don’t trust anyone to come through for you; feeling like you don’t understand the world around you, like everyone else is in on something that must have skipped you; not seeking comfort; avoidant behaviors; a tendency to shy away from intimate relationships.”</p><p> John exhales a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Jesus.”</p><p>“When kids with RAD—reactive attachment disorder—start to form connections, they typically go one of two ways. There’s the disinhibited, where the kid with RAD ends up becoming overly emotional. They search for affection in anybody who pays them the slightest bit of attention.”</p><p>That didn’t exactly describe John so she continued, “There’s also inhibited. Those kids avoid any emotional bond, they reject kindness and relationships because they don’t trust it. Even if a kid likes someone, they eventually reject them before they can be rejected.”</p><p>John swallows. Just that morning, he had been thinking about how to disentangle himself from Helen. He had justified it by telling himself it was to protect her. From him, from his enemies.</p><p>But Helen was still there; still sitting by his side. Still trusting him with her life <em>despite everything</em>.</p><p>“When kids with RAD grow up, relationships—even friendships are strained. There’s a fundamental lack of trust that’s based in fear. You avoid close relationships; avoid personal relationships, period.”</p><p>“I didn’t avoid you.”</p><p>She inclines her head, “Yeah, well…” She takes another bite of her dinner.</p><p>“Well, what?” He’s almost afraid of the answer with the look she’s giving him.</p><p>“It isn’t unusual for someone with RAD to over-attach themselves to one or two people in particular. Those relationships tend to be a bit obsessive.”</p><p>And now, he needs a drink. He preferred to savor bourbon, but he was ready to down a bottle to avoid <em>this</em> particular conversation again.</p><p>He can’t help but wonder if she <em>knows</em> just how far his obsession for her goes. If he told her he loved her, would she say that she already knows? After all, she knows everything else about him. Or would she smile sadly, empathetically, and tell him that she cared for him, but not like that?</p><p>He wasn’t sure which would be worse.</p><p>John had accepted a long time ago that he would love her forever. That he would never feel for another what he felt for her.</p><p>A part of him is… almost angry. He loves her but it isn’t because of his trauma.</p><p>She’s kind and good and so damn empathetic. But she’s more than that. She’s clever and unyielding. Smart and funny and so damn beautiful, inside and out.</p><p>And he isn’t sure he can give a reason why he loves her but he doesn’t want his feelings for her, his obsession, his love for her to be tainted by the abuse he had suffered.</p><p>“I don’t want to be defined by that trauma.” It slips out before he can think better of it but Helen takes his words in her gentle way. Her head tilts to the side.</p><p>“Do you feel like you are?”</p><p>“Sometimes. At least, that I’m a product of it.”</p><p>Helen nods, thoughtfully, “You are… distinguished by your trauma. It has shaped you, just like every other experience you have been through, you are changed by it. But you are far more than the sum of your past, John.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “The things I feel… they’re not normal.”</p><p>Again, her little hand finds his, resting atop the back of his hand. She squeezes in comfort.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean they’re not real.”</p><p>Ultimately, John thinks, he’s still fucked in the head.</p><p>But it’s a little easier to live with that fact with Helen at his side.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. I'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John drove nearly thirty miles more out of the way before he stopped for gas. He used one of his actual credit cards, under his actual name, so that anybody digitally tracking him would think they were heading west.</p><p>Then he turned around and started east. From then on, any stops made would be under a fake name.</p><p>What should have been a four-hour drive turned into ten with John’s convoluted path, followed by a refusal to take any interstate that used cameras to track plates. Which meant that most of their trip was spent on smaller routes and unknown roads.</p><p>Helen reads on-and-off, shaking her head whenever he stops to look at a map and find a new path.</p><p>“Wouldn’t it be easier to plan a route and write it down?” She asks after four hours of his strange driving.</p><p>“It’ll be harder for people to track us if I don’t have a plan.”</p><p>She takes that with a large eye roll before burying herself back in a book for a little while. They stop again for dinner, this time taking sandwiches to-go.</p><p>By the time they reach the Vermont border, Helen looks exhausted, though she doesn’t say anything. “How much further?” She asks softly.</p><p>“An hour.”</p><p>Exhaustion is starting to consume him as well and it occurs to John that <em>he</em> hadn’t had a full night of sleep since before the fiasco. He had managed to catch a few hours in the chair, waiting for her to wake up, and a few more when he fell asleep by her side.</p><p>He’d gone on less but not in a damn long time.</p><p>John pulls off the road and down onto the long driveway. “We’re here.” He tells her and Helen sits up a little straighter.</p><p>She tries to peer out over the property but it’s cloaked under darkness. She can make out the outline of a house and a window appears lit.</p><p>“Whose car is that?” She asks as his headlights glint off another vehicle.</p><p>“Marcus.” John answers looking sheepish, like he just remembered, “I probably should have mentioned that.”</p><p>She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Probably. Extra security?”</p><p>John pulls up to the spot next to Marcus and puts the car in park before turning to her, “I’m not going to be able to do some of the things I need to do remotely.”</p><p>“Ah.” Helen nods, “Baby-sitting.”</p><p>“I know you’re capable of handling yourself…” he tries to appease but Helen waves him off.</p><p>“But Marcus has training. Marcus knows the system.” She shoots him a look, “I know you need me to be safe for you to do whatever it is you have to do. I’m not upset; I’m not offended.”</p><p>He really doesn’t deserve her understanding.</p><p>In fact, it continues to throw him that she’s still so fucking calm. But he’s not going to question it anymore. If she needs to break down, he’ll be there. And if she doesn’t… well, he’s always known she was the strong one.</p><p>Helen grabs her stack of books, piling them back up as John gets out of the car. He grabs the duffle with clothes from the backseat, then goes around to the trunk. Helen comes up and takes a case that, he doesn’t have the heart to tell her, has handguns.</p><p>A light flashes on just above the door and Marcus steps out.</p><p>“Took you long enough.” The older assassin says, coming down the short set of stairs that lead up to John’s cottage.</p><p>“John managed to find the longest, most convoluted route to get here.”</p><p>“Lucky I didn’t drag your ass to Canada.” John mutters.</p><p>She smirks in response.</p><p>“I’m Marcus.” Marcus introduces himself, coming around to the trunk.</p><p>“Helen.” She replies.</p><p>Marcus looks over her head to John, “Went grocery shopping since I wasn’t sure when you were going to get here. Hit up the liquor store on the way, too. Your bar was lacking.”</p><p>“Thank fuck.” Helen says, going up the stairs, “I need a drink.”</p><p>John concurred but called out to her, “You have a concussion!”</p><p>Helen snorts, “Like you’ve never drank with a concussion!” She calls back as she enters the house.</p><p>True enough, John thinks, handing Marcus a bag filled with rifles. Marcus glances back, checking that Helen is inside before he says, “Sofia sends her regards. As well as a congratulations for finally getting laid.”</p><p> “For the record,” John says, not wanting Marcus to get the wrong idea or end up saying the wrong thing to Helen, “We’re not sleeping together.”</p><p>“No? She’s just staying at your place and wearing your clothes for the hell of it?”</p><p>“It’s complicated.”</p><p>“Ain’t it ever.”</p><p>John sighs, also looking up at the doorway where Helen had disappeared, before looking back, “How bad is it looking?”</p><p>Marcus grimaces, “It isn’t good, John. You know how rumors go. Nobody knows what’s going on, so everyone is talking about it. Speculating. Coming to their own conclusions. Your name is enough to scare off a few. I talked Perkins down from pursuing it, Ernest too. Harry isn’t going to touch it out of respect and I’m sure he’s not the only one.”</p><p>“But that’s not even a handful of people backing down.”</p><p>Marcus nods in agreement, “I reached out to Winston. He’s reminding some of the younger crowd exactly what you’re capable of but for some of them, that’s the charm. Kill Baba Yaga’s girl and you make a name for yourself overnight.”</p><p>John exhales, “I get it. I was that kid, too. And four million on an open contract is going to be hard to resist.”</p><p>“She’s out of the city.” Marcus says, “Anybody else know about this place?”</p><p>“No one. Bought it under an unconnected alias.”</p><p>Marcus nods again, “You got a plan?”</p><p>John lifts one last bag before closing the trunk, “It’s all fucking political. I’m out of my depth. Right now,” he glances up at the house, “It’s all about keeping her safe.”</p><p>It’s been years since John had been to the property but that was a good thing. It meant there would be no tracks leading him this way, to a small town in the middle of the mountains.</p><p>The house itself was one of John’s smaller properties.</p><p>The front door leads straight into the kitchen and John sets down the first load of food on the counter as they pass through to the living room. There’s a sofa with a pullout couch across from a stone fireplace that John has enjoyed reading by on more than one occasion.</p><p>It occurs to John, suddenly that he hadn’t done the math.</p><p>One pullout couch and one bedroom. Three people.</p><p>He thinks, for a moment, that he should have chosen the safehouse in Maine. It was further away from the city, but that served as a double-edged sword.</p><p>Too far away from the city would make commuting impossible and John wasn’t sure he could be away from Helen for very long. Not after having her so easily ripped away from him.</p><p>There’s a door, just off the living room, that leads to the basement.</p><p>The case Helen had taken is sitting on the couch and Marcus picks it up and grabs the other bag with weapons from John. Wordlessly, the older assassin takes them downstairs.</p><p>John walks down the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom on one side and the bedroom on the other. Helen is arranging the books the nightstand by the bed.</p><p>She glances up at his presence, “I’ve claimed this side of the bed.” She tells him, nodding to where her books are placed and…</p><p>Well, that simultaneously solves the problem and gives him a whole slue of other ones to worry about. Like having to resist every urge to touch her, to hold her like he had that morning. The fact that waking up next to Helen was bound to give him a morning <em>situation </em>that he really didn’t want to have to deal with.</p><p>But it was probably the best option.</p><p>No, he thinks, it is the best option. Because god forbid anybody make it past Marcus, they sure as hell weren’t getting past John.</p><p>He swallows, and just says, “Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>She smiles at him, “Now where the fuck is the alcohol?”</p><p>Dealing with Helen in a professional setting verse the real world, John has discovered, isn’t really that different. She swears a bit more than she ever did in session and she’s more likely to tell him something than to let him flounder around and find answer for himself. That, he supposes, was probably due to their dire circumstances.</p><p>But all in all, it wasn’t much different. She still had the same no bullshit policy; still pushed him to his limits. Helen was still more than willing to push him around. Challenge him like no one else would ever dare.</p><p>“I don’t suppose I can get you to hold off on drinking for another couple of days?” He tries, half-heartedly. He knows he’s being a hypocrite.</p><p>“Not a chance.” She replies.</p><p>“Liquor cabinet is in the living room.”</p><p>She looks him over once, eyes assessing, “You okay?”</p><p>John nods, his lips twitching in response. “Yeah.”</p><p>Helen walks over and loops her arm through his, “Come on. Think you could probably use a drink, too.”</p><p>That he could.</p><p>Marcus is back upstairs, sipping on what John assumes is Cognac, sitting in the armchair by the fire.</p><p>Helen releases John’s arm as she moves towards the liquor cabinet, squatting down to get a better look inside. Marcus truly had filled it up, John notes. Before, it had just been several bottles of his expensive bourbon. Marcus had added a few wines and two bottles of Cognac.</p><p>“There’s vodka in the freezer.” He adds.</p><p>Helen grabs a bottle of the red wine and an opener. Forgoing the glasses perched above, she makes her way back to the couch. Expertly, she screws in the mechanism as John pours himself a large glass of Blantons.</p><p>He hears the pop of the wine and looks over, ready to offer to bring her a glass but Helen is already drinking from the bottle.</p><p>He barely withholds a smile as he caps the bourbon and sets it away.</p><p>“That kind of day, huh?” Marcus asks, not unkindly.</p><p>She smirks, “Ever spend ten hours in a car with John?”</p><p>John shoots her a look as he joins her on the other end of the couch.</p><p>“Done about that on stakeouts. Never would have made it through without a flask.”</p><p>John flips Marcus off, making the other assassin grin.</p><p>Helen sinks back into the couch, taking the bottle with her. He knows Helen well enough to know that she’s not oblivious to the fact that she is under Marcus’ scrutiny. She clearly just doesn’t give a fuck.</p><p>He can’t blame her. Especially considering the days she had leading up to all this.</p><p>Marcus looks over to him, an eyebrow raised. He gestures with his head to Helen, who is sitting with her eyes closed at the moment, and mouths <em>Does she know?</em></p><p>He nods before taking a sip of his whiskey and he doesn’t miss the look of incredulity on Marcus’s face as he looks back to Helen.</p><p>John gets it. He really fucking does.</p><p>She’s sitting there joking about the hardest part of her day being putting up with John when there’s a world of assassins currently hunting her down. And Marcus doesn’t even know the half of it.</p><p>Helen opens her eyes and takes another long drink from the bottle before looking at Marcus, “So you’re my new babysitter.”</p><p>“Is that what John said?” Marcus asks with a pensive smile. He seems to be trying to figure Helen out. John wishes him luck. An impossible task if ever there was one.</p><p>Helen rolls her eyes, “Please. John forgot to mention you were here until we literally pulled into the driveway.”</p><p>Marcus nods in understanding, “He’s kind of a disaster.”</p><p>“Aren’t we all?” She sips from the bottle again.</p><p>Marcus salutes her with his glass and drinks. True enough.</p><p>“Still,” He says, “I got to wonder—did grad school prepare you for that level of fucked up?”</p><p>Helen snorts, “I interned at a mental hospital. Among my clientele were a grown man convinced he was a werewolf, a housewife who thought she was Jesus Christ, and an old army vet who came down with apotemnophilia.”</p><p>“I’m not familiar with that.”</p><p>“It’s when you have an overwhelming desire to amputate parts of the body, regardless of their health. He used to tell me I’d look much better without my arms. Trust me, John’s not that crazy.”</p><p>Even John looks at her with shock at that revelation. She'd joked to him before, in moments of his self-deprecation, that he was nothing compared to some of the cases she had in grad school. But crazy or not, John had the urge to track down the man who had threatened her and-- no. No.</p><p>Priorities. </p><p>“Maybe not,” Says Marcus after digesting her words, “But I know for a fact John’s severed limbs before.”</p><p>“Marcus.” John warns lowly but Helen only laughs.</p><p>“As long as it’s not mine, I don’t give a shit.” She rubs at her eyes. She’s tired, John can tell. Emotionally and physically exhausted.</p><p>“You should get some rest.” His voice softens of its own accord.</p><p>“Pretty sure I’ve slept more than you have during this ordeal.”</p><p>“Sedation doesn’t count.”</p><p>He ignores the raised eyebrows from Marcus.</p><p>“Doesn’t have too.” Helen argues, “Even without it, I’m sure I’ve slept more than you.” But even as she says it, she sighs softly. “Fuck, I didn’t reach out to my clients for today! Is my laptop still in your car?”</p><p>John winces. He had hoped, in the confusion of finding out somebody had put a hit on her, she would forget about work. At least for a few days.</p><p>He opens his mouth to explain to her that, while yes, he had her laptop, she couldn’t power it on.</p><p>She seems to get the picture on her own and her shoulders drop ever so slightly. Guilt clutches him, making his stomach turn.</p><p>“I can’t use it, can I?”</p><p>John shakes his head, “Your laptop can be turned on, but if we connect it to the internet, the IP address can be traced to our location.”</p><p>“What if I use a different computer? My client’s information is all stored online.”</p><p>“Any account you have, personal or work,” John feels his self-loathing growing as he answers, “Will have been breached and trapped by now. Any remote access could lead them here.”</p><p>“The system we use for client information is encrypted.”</p><p>“It won’t matter. The hackers of the Underworld are relentless.” Marcus adds, not unkindly, “And as of right now, you’re the largest monetary hit in the country. And you’re a civilian, which means the people of our world are going to assume you won’t have the skills to defend yourself. John’s name will protect you from some of the smarter, more established killers. But not from everyone.”</p><p>She nods, taking it in.</p><p>She’s still calm but paired with the exhaustion, John can see it weighing on her.</p><p>“My clients are just going to keep showing up at my office, even thought I’m not there.” She says and her voice is strained.</p><p><em>Is this what breaks her?</em> John thinks. Not the kidnapping, not the bounty on her head, but not being able to be there for her clients?</p><p>He wants to reach out and take her into his arms. To hold her and to promise her that everything will be okay. That he’ll <em>fix </em>this.</p><p>But he doesn’t have that right.</p><p>This is still his fault.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” John says, forcing himself not to touch her, “And I know this is frustrating. But I’d rather have your clients minorly inconvenienced than have you put yourself at risk.”</p><p>She lets out a breath and nods, “You’re right.”</p><p>Helen takes another long swig from the bottle of wine before she sets it down on the coffee table.</p><p>“I’m going to try and get some sleep.”</p><p>John nods, “That’s probably a good idea.”</p><p>Standing, she looks back to John, “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”</p><p>His heart clenches at the gentleness of her voice.</p><p>“I won’t.” He promises.</p><p>She says a quick good night to Marcus before she heads down the hall. Marcus waits until the door has closed behind her before quietly saying, “She took that better than I expected.”</p><p>“She’s tough as hell.” John tells him.</p><p>“Did you say she was sedated?”</p><p>He huffs a breath, “It was a rough weekend.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>John nods once, tipping back what was left of his bourbon. It burns down his throat as John explains, “Friday night, Helen was kidnapped from her bed.” Marcus’ mouth opens but John continues, needing to get it out before he loses the ability. “I got a call not long after saying if I wanted her back, unharmed, I had to kill the D’Antonio family.”</p><p>Marcus inclines his head, “And given that Senor D’Antonio still lives and the High Table didn’t rain down on your ass, I take it you didn’t do that.”</p><p>“I was going to.” John admits, “I didn’t know who took her, only what they wanted. Had no idea where she was or if she was okay. Didn’t have any other leads. But Winston talked me down. Asked me to give him a chance to find who took her before I assassinated an incumbent member of the High Table and his heirs.</p><p>“But we had <em>nothing</em>. Not a trace, not a clue. Not a name or an organization. She was held hostage for nearly forty hours. I was ready to go after the D’Antonio’s, consequences be damned. But Helen managed to get her hands on a phone. Long enough to get me a name. Mateo DeLuca.”</p><p>“Not familiar.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “Nobody is. He’s Dante DeLuca’s son.”</p><p>“The heir of the Syndicate?”</p><p>John nods once. “It seems that Dante left his heir with a bit of wealth and not a lot of guidance.” John stands, walking back over to the liquor cabinet. He needs the burn in his belly to get him through this. “With his name, the Technician was able to trace down his properties and find out where she was being held. I got her out, got her home.”</p><p>John pours another couple fingers and immediately gulps down a mouthful.</p><p>He revels in the temporary pain that shoots down his throat, followed by the warming of his stomach. Shaking his head, he says, “I should have gone after DeLuca then. I should have tracked him down and ended this.”</p><p>“But you walked away with the girl and the D’Antonio’s are still alive.” Marcus finishes as John knocks back whiskey he would usually savor. “So, he put the hit out on Helen.”</p><p>John nods, staring at the bottle of Blanton’s. He wants to drink more but it was too much, too fast. He’d already let his guard down and Helen had been the one to suffer. He needed to keep his head in the game.</p><p>“And now I can’t touch him.” John confirms, “Because he’s the only one who can remove the hit. But,” John shakes his head in disgust, “DeLuca just broadcasted my biggest weakness to the entire Underworld, so even if the hit is removed, she’ll still have people gunning for her.”</p><p>It’s so much <em>worse</em> to say it all out loud. To hear himself admit just how badly he fucked this one up. All those months ago, when she gave him her card and he should have chucked it in the trash. Burned it to avoid the temptation to hear her voice again.</p><p>But he didn’t.</p><p>He knew better.</p><p>He knew so much better than to become involved with a person outside the Underworld. He knew how it always ended.</p><p>Heartbreak, at best.</p><p>Mourning, at worst.</p><p>John thought he could manage it. They weren’t together, so why would anyone care?</p><p>But they were still emotionally involved, and he hadn’t covered it up well enough.</p><p>“I fucked up.” John says, leaving his now empty glass on top of the cabinet and moving back over to the couch. He sits down, feeling defeated, “I fucked up and I don’t know how to fix this.”</p><p>Marcus leans forward, thoughtfully. “Does she know how bad it is?”</p><p>“I’ve tried to explain it to her. She knows about the bounty, she knows that literally <em>hundreds</em> of assassins are looking for her right now. But she’s eerily calm about the whole thing.”</p><p>“Eerily calm in general,” Marcus points out, “I’d think she was in shock from it all if she wasn’t so put together.”</p><p>John had to agree and nodded. Helen had said that she processed the possibility of being used against John long before she was kidnapped, and he was sure that helped her to keep her head. But it was going to take a toll on her, as was the bounty.</p><p>“I’m afraid it’s going to hit her all at once.” John admits, “God knows she’s tough, but it’s a lot to handle.”</p><p>“If it happens, it happens.” Marcus waves a hand, “Deal with it then. Right now, you need to focus on how you’re going to keep her safe.”</p><p>“I need to get the bounty removed.”</p><p>“Then you’ll need to find DeLuca.”</p><p>John huffs, “Not sure I can track him down and not rip him limb from limb.”</p><p>“Apparently, some people are into that.” Marcus sits up straighter, “But you know you can’t do that. And DeLuca knows you can’t do that. You’re going to have to choose between revenge and your girlfriend.”</p><p>“She’s not my girlfriend.”</p><p>Marcus rolls his eyes and clarifies, “The woman that you’re clearly in love with.”</p><p>He’s too tired to argue and, besides, Marcus is <em>right</em>.</p><p>“It’s not a choice.” John replies. He could crave revenge all he liked but nothing would matter if Helen was gone.</p><p>“No shit.” Marcus seems deep in thought, “I don’t know much about Mateo. Or Syndicate, for that matter. Didn’t even know they had an active branch in the States.”</p><p>“Only one at all, from what I hear. They have their base in Rome and a smaller branch in New York. But everyone seems to have a foot in New York these days.”</p><p>Marcus nods in agreement, “You think DeLuca’s will be willing to cut a deal?”</p><p>That was another matter entirely, one that nagged John in the back of his head. DeLuca was smarter than John had initially given him credit for. He might not have a good grip on the Syndicate and was clearly overestimating his power as heir, but he was clever.</p><p>He’d made his moves wisely in relation to John. Finding his weakness, exploiting it. And when John fought back, he exploited it harder.</p><p>“DeLuca wants Rome.” John synthesizes, “And Rome belongs to the Camorra. Fuck, <em>Italy </em>belongs to the Camorra.”</p><p>“You think he’ll stick with his original deal, then? Helen’s life in exchange for killing D’Antonio?”</p><p>John inclines his head, “If I were in his position, it’s what I’d do. He’s holding all the cards right now.”</p><p>“Bluff.”</p><p>“With Helen?” John shakes his head, “He wouldn’t believe me. And he’d be right not to.”</p><p>“Then make him believe you.”</p><p>“You don’t understand. I <em>can’t.</em>” He sighs, “I think about her, and I get tense. I hear her name, and I lose the ability to think straight. I’ve never been a great liar, but I don’t need to be if I just don’t talk. So I don’t talk. But that’s all politics seems to be. Talking and lying and bullshitting each other. I can’t do that shit.”</p><p>“You can’t lie?” Marcus asks, momentarily taken aback.</p><p>“Not well. I overthink and I know I overthink.”</p><p>“You’re an assassin and you can’t lie.” Marcus says again.</p><p>John rolls his eyes, “I don’t do the subterfuge bullshit that you and Sofia pull. If I want someone dead, I walk up to them and I kill them.”</p><p>“I’ve known you for twenty plus years and I didn’t know you couldn’t lie?”</p><p>“Doesn’t come up. You ask me a question I don’t want to answer, I just don’t answer it.”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>“Can we focus on the matter at hand, please?”</p><p>Marcus shakes his head, as if he’s clearing it. “Okay. So you can’t bluff to DeLuca. But you also can’t kill Lorenzo D’Antonio without severe consequences.”</p><p>“Consequences be damned if DeLuca lifts the bounty.”</p><p>Marcus shakes his head vigorously, “It’s suicide by High Table.”</p><p>“But <em>she’ll </em>be safe.” He insists, “And with me out of the equation, there would be no reason for anybody else to target her either.”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid.”</p><p>“Right now, it looks like the best opt--”</p><p>“Shut up.” Marcus interrupts, “Keep talking like that and I’ll go knock on her door and tell <em>her</em> what you’re planning to do.”</p><p>“You think she could stop me?”</p><p>Marcus gives him a look and John glances away.</p><p>It was a shot in the dark. John wasn’t entirely sure that Helen could stop him. He’d eagerly give up his life to keep her safe. A single noble act out of a lifetime of paving a path to Hell.</p><p>But Helen was good at getting into his head. And she wouldn’t be happy if she knew that he was considering putting himself in the line of fire over her. Worse, she would be <em>disappointed. </em>Upset. And while he would rather have Helen upset and <em>alive</em>, he wasn’t sure he could stand knowing that he disappointed her.</p><p>John feels his shoulders sink in defeat, “So what do I do, then? I kill the D’Antonio’s, Helen gets out alive and my life is forfeit. I don’t kill the D’Antonio’s, and the contract for her life remains open.”</p><p>“You’re still guessing at this point.” Says Marcus, “DeLuca hasn’t offered you a deal yet. And maybe you’re right, maybe it’s exactly what he asks for. But maybe he doesn’t offer you shit. Maybe he just wants to see you both suffer after you saved her without giving in to his demands.”</p><p>John considers it. Helen mentioned that she told DeLuca, to his face, that he had mommy issues he needed to work on. So, DeLuca definitely was not on Team Helen. And John had killed eight of his men. So, he clearly wasn’t Team John either.</p><p>But, if John followed that line of thinking, there was no saving her. If DeLuca had no intentions of dropping the hit, then John was stuck yet again.</p><p>Only the patron or the High Table could cancel an open contract and the High Table didn’t do anything that didn’t directly benefit themselves.</p><p>If DeLuca refused to drop the contract, then the only way to keep her safe would be to keep her in hiding.</p><p>And Helen wouldn’t do that. For now, she would stay at the safe house because John had asked and because she thought it was only temporary. If this went on too long… she’d leave. Or she’d try to. And John would stop her because he’d rather have her safe than dead.</p><p>But she would resent him and the thought, alone, made him think that death was a far better option. He would rather be dead than have her look at him with hatred.</p><p>Marcus interrupts his line of thought, “Or maybe you can beat him to the punch. Alert the High Table that someone has come to you, pressuring you to kill Lorenzo D’Antonio in exchange for your girlfriend’s life—I <em>know</em> she’s not your girlfriend. But they High Table doesn’t need to know that.” Marcus says, appeasing John before he can correct him.</p><p>John considers it, briefly, but shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous. If the High Table decides to make an example out of him, he could wind up dead with the contract still open.”</p><p>“He’s not a prominent player. He might just get a slap on the wrist.”</p><p>“I’m not playing chicken with Helen’s life.”</p><p>“No, just with your own.”</p><p>Marcus doesn’t understand, John thinks. He doesn’t get it.</p><p>“You don’t need to be a martyr.” The older assassin continues.</p><p>John looks to his ally, his friend<em>. </em>“Give me another way.” He says, “Tell me how I save her and get out of this alive. Please.”</p><p>“There has to be a way.”</p><p>“I can’t find it.” John tells him.</p><p>“You got her out of the city and out of harm’s way.” Marcus reminds him, emphasizing the fact, “She’s <em>safe</em>. There’s no reason you need to figure this all out tonight.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “She’s putting her entire life on hold fo—”</p><p>“And I guarantee you if I asked her right now if she would rather keep her life on hold or go back tomorrow at the cost of <em>your life, </em>she won’t fucking hesitate to tell you to stop being an idiot. Hopefully give you a good smack, too.”</p><p>“Because she’s selfless.”</p><p>“Or maybe, because she cares about you.”</p><p>“She cares about everyone.”</p><p>Marcus looks at him, shaking his head, “Yeah. That woman, who was making jokes about you <em>dismembering </em>people cares about everyone.”</p><p>“It was the context of the situation!”</p><p>“Or,” Marcus argues, “She’s not as perfect as you think she is.”</p><p>John opens his mouth, ready to argue back but Marcus beats him to the punch.</p><p>“And that’s <em>okay</em>. It’s more than okay that she’s human and imperfect, just like the rest of us. And maybe, just maybe, she’s not being a good sport about this because she’s selfless and kind but because she cares about <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“That’s not what this is!”</p><p>“Jesus, John.” Marcus shakes his head in utter disbelief, “Is it really that hard to believe that somebody could love you?”</p><p>It’s a low blow that leaves John speechless. He looks away, wondering if he could get away with another glass of whiskey without becoming liable to say or do something stupid. He decides against it and when he looks back, Marcus is still looking at him like he’s never seen him before.</p><p>“Fuck all.” Marcus mutters, “Learned more about you in the last half hour than I have in twenty years of friendship, John.”</p><p>John’s not sure what to say to that so he says nothing.</p><p>Finally, Marcus’ tone softens, “I get it. If you need to die to keep her safe, then that’s what you’re going to do. But don’t go into this thinking that’s your only path. At least let us try to figure something out before you decide to try a turn at being noble, okay?”</p><p>John nods in agreement, “Okay. Fuck, I’m not trying to die here, Marcus. I just don’t see another way at getting DeLuca to drop the contract.”</p><p>“We have time.” Marcus reminds him. “We’ll find a way.”</p><p>John nods again but he’s not as hopeful as his friend. He’d gambled with Helen’s life once already, thinking he was saving her. But not complying with the demands of DeLuca was what got him into this fucking mess in the first place.</p><p>“Blankets for the pull-out are in the hall closet.” John tells him, rising to his feet. He can’t… he can’t talk about it anymore. Not Helen or Syndicate or any of it.</p><p>He needs to sleep.</p><p>Really sleep, in a bed, uninterrupted.</p><p>Maybe then, John thinks, he’ll be able to make sense of it all.</p><p>He makes his way down the hall, stopping briefly to use the bathroom. It’s been years since he’d been to the property and while Marcus had stocked up on food and alcohol, they would need other things tomorrow.</p><p>Toothpaste and brushes. Soap. Shampoo.</p><p>He stares in the mirror over the sink.</p><p>He looks like a fucking mess, but he can’t bring himself to care.</p><p>John swallows as he leaves the bathroom, gazing across the hall.</p><p><em>“I’ve claimed this side of the bed.” </em>She’d told him earlier.</p><p>He really should have chosen the safehouse in Maine he thinks as he quietly opens the door to the bedroom.</p><p>The light from the hall shines down on her sleeping form. She’s curled on her side, facing the door, with one hand under the pillow.</p><p>How many times, John wonders, had he watched her sleep like this?</p><p>From afar. Dreaming of what it would be like to hold her.</p><p>Now he knew.</p><p>It felt better than he imagined heaven.</p><p>Of course, he thinks, he isn’t going to hold her now. They’re just sharing a bed. This isn’t love, like he imagined. Or comfort, like he had given her earlier. This was… convenience.</p><p>There was one bed.</p><p>He could, John considers, sleep on the floor. Give her the space without intruding. Perhaps that would be the best thing to do.</p><p>“Get in the bed, John.” Helen says, not opening her eyes.</p><p>He nearly startles at her tired voice… had thought her asleep.</p><p>Apparently, he doesn’t move fast enough because she adds, “I can feel you thinking from here. Get in the damn bed.”</p><p>John swallows down the lump in his throat. He toes off his shoes and socks, leaving them by the door.</p><p>His bag is still at the foot of his bed and carefully, quietly, unzips it and finds the pair of sweatpants he had packed.</p><p>While he preferred to sleep in boxers, he was grateful he packed with the foresight of going for a run. He’d much prefer to sleep in sweats than in jeans. He wonders if he should go back to the bathroom but, instead, he goes to what must be his side of the bed.</p><p>Her back is turned, and he quickly strips off the jeans and exchanges them for the sweatpants.</p><p>John is getting in bed with Helen, not for comfort, but to sleep. And somehow, he thinks, that’s worse. The pseudo-domesticity of it has his head spinning as he pulls back the cover and slips under on <em>his side</em> of the bed.</p><p>Helen lets out a soft sigh as the bed dips and rolls to her other side. Her eyes are still closed, he notes.</p><p>He longs to reach out and push back her hair but he resists. John closes his eyes and lets himself be lulled by the steady rise and fall of her breathing.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. I'd be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun is peaking through the curtains when John feels the fog of sleep begin to roll away. Immediately, he is caught off guard by the sheer heaviness of his blankets, practically pinning him to the bed.</p><p>He blinks away the sleep only to find himself suddenly <em>very</em> awake.</p><p>Helen is splayed across him, an arm draped over his chest while her head rests in the crook of his neck. Her leg is entwined around his. One of his own arms is wrapped under her while the other is wrapped around her back, holding her in place.</p><p>John isn’t entirely sure how they ended up like this. He moves the arm draped over her back and Helen makes a sound of disproval. The arm around his chest tightens and she burrows her head deeper into his the crook of his neck, her body sliding a bit further onto his. Her thigh brushes over his cock and he winces as it stirs to life.</p><p>The feel of her body entangled with his, the scent of his bodywash clinging to her skin is all too much. And while he kind of wants to stay like this forever, he needs to get the fuck away.</p><p>He gently takes her arm off his chest and presses it back to her, rolling her off and onto the bed as carefully as he can. She pouts in her sleep, making a huff as John slips out from under her.</p><p>Immediately, Helen curls into a ball, leaning into the spot of warmth he’d left behind.</p><p>Her legs are mostly bare, he notices. She changed before bed, it would seem. No longer is she wearing his sweatpants, rolled down at the waist and up at the pant cuff. Instead, she had found and taken a pair of his boxers from his bag.</p><p>He stifles a groan at the sight and his cock hardens all the more.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>He needs a shower.</p><p>John slips from the room and down the hall. His suits, which he’ll need if he’s going to the Continental, all remain in the back seat of his car.</p><p>Marcus is up and about in the kitchen as John passes through, a pot of coffee dripping behind him. John grabs his keys off the counter and ducks outside.</p><p>The grass is dewy, the sharp smell of fog and clear air are in stark contrast to the usual city air he’s used to breathing every day. He grabs the suit bags from his backseat and hurries back inside, ignoring the painful ache of his cock.</p><p>“Coffee?” Marcus asks as John comes back in, closing the door behind him.</p><p>“Gonna shower first.” He mutters.</p><p>“You bring shower stuff?”</p><p>“No, gonna need to buy shit later.”</p><p>“Cold shower kind of morning?” Marcus asks with a large grin. John flips him off, only serving to make Marcus laugh at his misery.</p><p>John decides he hates everything. Well, he spares a glance at the bedroom door… Almost everything.</p><p>He closes the bathroom door behind him and slams the shower on. John shucks his clothes, laying them on the sink before grabbing a towel off a shelf. He finds one towards the middle that doesn’t have a coating of dust and makes a mental note to bring the dirtier towels to the basement to be washed.</p><p>The mirror steams around its edges and John slips into the shower. The water burns just a bit and he closes his eyes.</p><p>Nothing in the world could have prepared him to wake up to Helen atop him. Her arm wrapped around him, her face against his neck. He could feel the warmth of each breath she released.</p><p>He pictures her on top of him, like she had just been, but awake. Sleep still clinging to her eyes as those soft, pink lips pressed kisses to his neck. Her hand inching its way down his chest, his stomach… pushing under the band of his sweatpants to take his hardened cock in her small hands.</p><p>Those hands, which he has held in his. Softer than they had any right to be, wrapping around his cock. Would she be able to fully reach around, he wonders?</p><p>He takes his cock in hand, giving it a pump.</p><p>He can see her, in his mind, looking over at him with those beautiful brown eyes… her lips curl into a devilish grin as she presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck, teasing him with her teeth.</p><p>He can see her climbing down his body, agonizingly slowly until she lays between his legs. Her eyes fluttering as she holds him in her hand and licks a long stripe up the underside of his cock. Her wet, hot mouth dragging up and down his length before she takes his tip between those pretty pink lips…</p><p>John feels himself stiffen as he pictures it, his hips rolling as he strokes himself to the thought of her face.</p><p>She’d need to use her hand, he thinks. She might not be able to take him all. At least at first. She would bob her head up and down, his cock sliding in and out of her little mouth while her hand switches between stroking his base and massaging his balls.</p><p>Fuck…</p><p>He can hear her, in his mind, making that soft little moan that drove him wild. Her breath hitching as she tries again and again to take him deeper, to swallow him down.</p><p>So eager and needy and willing…</p><p>He’d try to keep it together, to hold off and not lose his load like a teenager.</p><p>But she’s staring up at him with those eyes, gagging on his cock as she tries again and again to take him all. Watching his dick disappear again and again into her mouth, down her throat while she makes those little wanton moans against him…</p><p>He bets she’d be dripping. Soaked for him so that by the time he is done, he can feast upon her sweet pussy…</p><p>He swallows a swear, forcing himself not to call out as he comes. White stripes shoot over his hand as John breathes heavily.</p><p>He stands under the hot stream of water until his breathing is back to normal, until his heart no longer feels as if it’ll beat out of his chest.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He pushes his wet hair out of his face and looks up into the water.</p><p>He’s grown used to the temperature, so he turns it up, just a bit. Just enough that it burns some life back into him.</p><p>Today, he thinks, is going to be hell.</p><p>He needs to go to the Continental. Needs to consult with Winston, needs to check his phone and see if DeLuca reached out again.</p><p>He needs to get a hold on the situation before he loses any more control.</p><p>Needs to put the fear of god into anybody stupid enough to consider targeting Helen.</p><p>He turns the water off and steps out of the shower, grabbing his towel. He starts to dry off, considering his options. Helen will be safe here. She’s far enough away from the city that no will be looking for her here. And Marcus will protect her.</p><p>She needs clothes, John thinks. And a whole lot of other things. He’ll have to stop at her house which means he’s almost certain to pick up a tail. And while he isn’t quite as paranoid about taking a ten hour detour without having Helen in the car but he isn’t going to go the direct route either.</p><p>John sighs, not looking forward to having to spend half his day in the car. At least it would be faster to get to the Continental than if he were going home to Jersey.</p><p>He dresses, putting on everything but the suit jacket. That he carries over his arm as he opens the door.</p><p>The bedroom door across the hall is open and the bed has been made up.</p><p>Down the hall, he can hear Helen and Marcus chatting.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m all good on that.” Helen says as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. Marcus shrugs and sips a bright orange beverage.</p><p>John finds himself rolling his eyes, “Did you bring your juicer here?”</p><p>“No.” Marcus says, “I bought a new one yesterday when I learned the only appliance you had was a coffee maker.”</p><p>“Thank fuck for that.” Helen says, saluting John with her mug of coffee.</p><p>He resists the urge to lean down and kiss her head.</p><p>She’s back in his sweats and t-shirt, hair mussed from sleep. She’s not quite fully awake yet, he can tell, and he longs to wrap his arms around her and carry her back to bed.</p><p>“I’m going to swing by your place today,” John tells her as he goes around Marcus to said coffeemaker. “Pack you some clothes. Is there anything else you want from there?”</p><p>“My shower stuff would be nice. And my glasses. I can read without them, but it gives me a headache.”</p><p>“Do you need more of the pills Doc sent?” John asks, looking over his shoulder in concern.</p><p>“Not yet. It’s not too bad right now.”</p><p>“You know,” Marcus adds, “You probably shouldn’t be drinking coffee with a concussion, either.”</p><p>“Come and pry it from my fucking hands.” She mutters, sipping at the beverage.</p><p>“Careful, Marcus, she doesn’t joke about her coffee.” John says as he tastes his own. It’s not the best, having been stored in the cabinet for a good few years, but he’s had worse.</p><p>He makes a mental note to stop for coffee on the way back as well.</p><p>Helen looks up, her soft gaze landing on him. He can see the curiosity reflected in her eyes but there is also trust. He’s not sure what he’s done to earn that trust considering the past few days but he swears to himself that he’ll do better this time.</p><p>“You might want to talk to Marcus before you leave. He might be able to give you a shortcut to the city that cuts out an hour or seven.” She teases.</p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>“Are you going straight to the Continental?” Marcus asks, smirking as he looks back at John. Like he’s trying to prove something from Helen’s teasing. What Marcus doesn’t understand, John thinks, is its not flirting. It’s just the way they talk to each other.</p><p>John ignores his smirk and nods, “Need to get an update from Winston and see if Karl managed to dig up anything on DeLuca before anything else.”</p><p>“Make sure you look into his mom. DeLuca’s the face, but his mom is definitely pulling strings in the Syndicate.” Helen adds before taking a sip. She makes a noise, her eyes widening as she quickly swallows her coffee, “And I swear to God, John, I’m going to be really pissed if you kill Nick and Frankie.”</p><p>He resists the urge to roll his eyes again. Truth be told, DeLuca’s henchmen and everyone else who played a role in her kidnapping had slipped down his list of priorities. He hadn’t forgotten, wouldn’t ever forget, but revenge would have to wait until she was actually safe.</p><p>And then he would consider her request to spare DeLuca’s men.</p><p>“Nick and Frankie?” Marcus asks.</p><p>“Those would be DeLuca’s men who she made friends with.”</p><p>Marcus turns and looks at Helen, raising an eyebrow. “You made friends with your kidnappers?”</p><p>“They’re hired guns, at best. And they’re both sweethearts, in way over their heads.”</p><p>Marcus looks back to John in disbelief.</p><p>John just shrugs, not sure what else to fucking do.</p><p>“John.” She says again, looking at him as she waits for a confirmation.</p><p>“I won’t kill them today. We can argue about tomorrow when I get back.”</p><p>She hums but accepts the answer.</p><p>John finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the sink before looking to Marcus, “Contingency: I have another house in Maine. Under a different name than this one, not connected to me in anyway.”</p><p>“Address?”</p><p>“11 Morningstar Road. Norcross. Key is in a small safe embedded in the lamppost by the door. Combination is 1605.”</p><p>“I thought we weren’t followed.” Helen says, looking between them.</p><p>“We weren’t.” John tells her, walking back over to her, “But there are always risks. Things we could have overlooked.”</p><p>“We can discuss your increased paranoia when you get back, if you’d like.” She says with a smirk.</p><p>Marcus chuckles as John throws him a look.</p><p>He ignores her comment, “Is there anything else you’ll need from your house? I’m not sure when I’ll be able to go back.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “Clothes, shoes, shower stuff, and my glasses.”</p><p>Glancing back to Marcus, John says, “Keep her safe. And Hels,” he looks back to Helen, almost beseechingly, “Don’t break him.”</p><p>Her face breaks into a smile and she says, “No promises.” The smile lessens, her face becoming a bit more serious, “Be careful.”</p><p>“I will be.”</p><p>Marcus snorts and John flips him off as he heads towards the door.</p><p>Helen watches as he slips out, the door closing behind him. She hears the sound of the car starting and then the rolling on the gravel as he leaves the driveway to head to the city.</p><p>Away from the safety of the house.</p><p>She sips her coffee, noting the feelings of anxiety that are building in herself.</p><p>“I’d rather you didn’t tell him I said this,” Marcus says, capturing her attention, “But John is the best at what he does. He’s going to be okay.”</p><p>Helen hums, because she knows this. She doesn’t belong to the Underworld, but she’s never had any doubt that John Wick wasn’t the best at anything he ever did.</p><p>He was defined by his control, his focus.</p><p>She understood why others were afraid of him, but John worked hard to keep that side of himself away from her.</p><p>No, her concern is not in John's ability.</p><p>“Can you look me in the eye and tell me he’s not going to do something stupid?” Helen asks.</p><p>Marcus’ mouth is drawn into a thin line.</p><p>No, she thinks. He can’t. Because John is emotional and irrational. That made him unpredictable, which in turn made him a hazard to himself.</p><p>She sits back in her chair and feels the breath leave her body.</p><p>It would be hours before he reached New York but she couldn’t help the feeling that he was already gone from her reach. She should have told him to stay. DeLuca was the kind of unpredictable that only came from someone figuring shit out as they went along.</p><p>“He’ll be back tonight.” Marcus says and he’s a bit more confident in that statement.</p><p>“I know. I just always worry when I know he’s working, and…” Helen peers up at the older assassin, “John is <em>protective </em>when it comes to me.”</p><p>Marcus snorts, “That’s an understatement.”</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “I’ve avoided asking him questions thus far because I think it will distress him.”</p><p>He nods in understanding.</p><p>Taking a breath, she asks, “What am I looking at, Marcus?”</p><p>Marcus walks over to the table and takes the seat across from her. There’s sympathy on his face, which makes her brace herself for what is to come.</p><p>“Like I said last night, when I left New York yesterday, you were the biggest monetary hit in North America. On paper, you’re a desirable contract. You don’t have any skills that serve as protective factors, so when somebody looks at you, they see a civilian. Educated, yes. But they know you probably can’t do much to defend yourself.</p><p>“Right now, your connection with John is the only thing stopping Hell from raining down on you. In our world, favors are currency. A lot of people owe John Wick favors. And a whole lot more don’t want his wrath directed at them if something happens to you.”</p><p>Helen nods. She had gathered as much from what Marcus had said the previous night.</p><p>“But it won’t stop everyone.” She says, alluding to what he wasn’t saying.</p><p>“Killing the Boogeyman’s woman, because for better or worse that what you are, would be an impressive feat. The kind that turns nobodies into somebodies overnight.</p><p>Semantics, Helen thinks, but appearance matters more than truth. For all intents and purposes, regardless of the fact she and John had never so much as kissed, she was his woman.</p><p>“John is going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.” Marcus tells her.</p><p>“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Helen says, sipping her coffee “There isn’t a way out of this, is there?”</p><p>“Removing a hit is complicated.” Marcus agrees, “The only person who can cancel it is the one who ordered it.”</p><p>“DeLuca.”</p><p>Marcus nods and she considers the implication.</p><p>DeLuca wouldn’t make it easy. He certainly wouldn’t remove the contract out of the goodness of his heart.</p><p>“How much danger is John in?”</p><p>“That depends on what DeLuca is going to want in exchange for the contract. If he asks for what he wanted originally, it could get bad.”</p><p>“<em>How bad</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Really</em> bad.” Marcus emphasizes, “I can guarantee he doesn’t want you to know how bad. But John could wind up in a bit of trouble.”</p><p>Helen places her head in her hand.</p><p>“He’s not going to let anything happen to you. He got you into this and—”</p><p>“We got ourselves into this.” Helen interrupts sharply, correcting the assassin.</p><p>Marcus regards her curiously, his head to the side as he considers her words. “You know, John denies that there’s anything going on between the two of you.”</p><p>“Technically, he’s right.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes, “Don’t tell me you’re in denial, too. You’re smarter than that.”</p><p>She huffs a humorless laugh, “It’s complicated.”</p><p>“Because you’re his therapist?”</p><p>She can hear the skepticism in his tone and Helen inclines her head. She gets what he’s thinking: the boundaries between her and John had never been great, but they had <em>shattered</em> upon her being targeted.</p><p>What were boundaries in the face of kidnapping and a four-million-dollar price on her head?</p><p>”I don’t agree with all of the ethics surrounding counseling but I understand why we should not dating clients. There’s too much of a power imbalance. Some people bare their soul in therapy but it’s one-sided. The therapist learns all about them but never share about themselves. It's an uneven exchange, in terms of emotionality.</p><p>“And sometimes, because the relationship is so formal, the client can start to idolize or project their own feelings onto the therapist.”</p><p>“And you think John is projecting?”</p><p>“I <em>know</em> John is projecting.” Helen looks away, “He puts me on a pedestal in his mind. Thinks that I’m far better a person than I am. It would be… a shame to disappoint him.”</p><p>…</p><p>The moment he pulls onto Helen’s street, John witnesses nearly half a dozen cars driving away. He feels his rage spike inside of him, knowing that they were waiting for her. To hurt her, to kill her.</p><p>His nostrils flare as he looks for any other cars that don’t belong on her street. It appeared as if they’d all pulled away at the sight of him. A smart move, he thinks, though he wishes someone had stayed behind.</p><p>He wanted to hurt someone. He wanted to hurt <em>DeLuca</em> but since he wasn’t able to do that, anybody out to hurt Helen would have to do. But no one, it seemed, was willing to deal with him.</p><p>John pulls into her driveway and throws the car into park. He finds her house much like he left it, late Friday night. The door is still unlocked. John finds that nothing appears disturbed, but he’s certain a few dozen assassins have been through. Looking for information on the largely unknown target.</p><p>He goes up the stairs to her room.</p><p>Guilt flares as he looks at her bed, the covers still thrown about from when she had been taken form her bed by DeLuca. Her sanctuary; invaded by more than just him.</p><p>Would it ever feel safe for her again?</p><p>He shakes the thought from his head. He <em>will </em>make it safe for her again.</p><p>John walks over to her closet, where her suitcase is tucked away, and narrowly misses the slash of a knife.</p><p>He jumps backwards as young man jumps out of her closet with another thrust of the blade.</p><p><em>Yes!</em> John thinks, watching with rage-mixed-amusement as the man tries to show off his prowess by spinning the knife around his hand.</p><p>John smacks the man’s arm and watches the flash of fear that follows as the knife clatters to the floor.</p><p>John backs up and waves his hand, giving the boy the permission and the time to pick up the knife.</p><p>He wants a fight. A real one.</p><p>Hell, Helen probably could have knocked her way out of that one unscathed.</p><p><em>Helen</em>.</p><p>This neophyte was here to kill Helen.</p><p>He approaches again, lunging forward in his ill-fitting suit.</p><p>Young, inexperienced.</p><p><em>Stupid</em>.</p><p>John gets the feeling that it won’t be the fight that he wants but he’ll take it. He’ll fucking take anything at this point.</p><p>This time, when he thrusts, John grabs his wrist and twists until it snaps. There’s a holler of pain as the knife falls again to the floor. John kicks it away, not yet releasing the limb.</p><p>The man tries to kick John’s legs apart, but John avoids it with a sigh. He shoves back on the broken wrist and the man stumbles back into the wall.</p><p>John waits.</p><p>The kid looks pissed. John knows the feeling.</p><p>He rushes forward, cradling the broken wrist to his chest, but ready to through a punch with his left hand. John steps out of the path and throws a punch.</p><p>It’s cathartic.</p><p>Breathing rituals and meditations were well and good, but sometimes the best self-care was a punch to the face.</p><p>John throws another one, lower, to the gut. It winds him and John uses the opportunity to grab the him by the ill-fitting suit and throw him across the room and onto the floor.</p><p>John drops to the ground, kneeling above him and strikes out again. His fists fly of their own accord, slamming into his face again and again and again until a sickly snap jolts John out of it. He hadn’t meant to break the man’s neck, not yet anyway.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>John pulls out his phone. It had been off since yesterday. He powers it on and sets it on the bed, letting it load. It vibrates continuously with an influx of messages and John grabs the bag from the closet.</p><p>He opens it on the bed and goes over to her bureau. She won’t be working, he thinks, so she’ll probably prefer casual and comfy over her usual professional ware. He picks a couple t-shirts but throws in a few blouses, in case he’s wrong. He finds jeans and sweatpants that will actually fit her.</p><p>He tries not to think too much about it when he has to pick her lingerie. He grabs an assortment, trying not to look, and drops it in the bag as well.</p><p>
  <em>Shoes, shower, glasses.</em>
</p><p>He grabs her slippers from beside the bed, and a pair each of heels and sneakers from the shoe rack next to her closet.</p><p>John enters her bathroom and wonders if he’s supposed to bring all of it. As someone who got by on a 2-in-1, he wasn’t sure what the hell half of the things in her shower were for.</p><p>Shaking his head, he takes it all.</p><p>Shoot first, ask later.</p><p>He carries the bundle over to the bag and tucks the seven bottles and razor into the front pockets on her bag.</p><p>His phone had stopped vibrating by then and he picks it up.</p><p>A few dozen texts, ten missed calls, and four voicemails.</p><p>He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the three voicemails from Winston. There’s another from Sofia.</p><p>He ignores them all as he hits the speed dial option for Charlie. He leaves a message for the clean-up crew with the location of Helen’s home. He promises to have the payment forwarded from the Continental since he doesn’t have the time to just sit around and wait. They'll know he's good for it.</p><p>He grabs the bag, scanning the text messages as he leaves.</p><p>Some curious assassins looking for information or permission, more information from the Technician… but what catches his eye is the unknown number with an Italian area code.</p><p>John opens the message, pausing before he reaches the door.</p><p><em>It’s time to make a choice</em>.</p><p>
  <em>7pm; the Gilded Rose. No weapons.</em>
</p><p>John resists the urge to roll his eyes. No weapons wouldn’t make a damn difference and they both know it. But fine.</p><p>He’ll play along.</p><p>John leaves the house, not bothering to lock it behind him.</p><p>He puts the bag into his trunk and gets back in his car. To be safe, he tucks her glasses away in his glove compartment, and sets off for the Continental. It’s just as well, he thinks, given that he has hours to kill before he meets with DeLuca.</p><p>Or walks headfirst into a trap.</p><p>John shakes his head and thinks <em>wouldn’t be the first time</em>.</p><p>He leaves his keys with the valet and makes his way inside, well-aware of the stares that follow him from the moment he walks through those doors. He’s used to be watched but this is different. They were looking for weakness, for confirmation that Helen Kingston was related to him in any way.</p><p>He tries not to show anything. The fact that Helen is out of the city and safe gives him a great deal of comfort as he passes through the lobby. He pauses at the desk.</p><p>“The Manager?” he asks.</p><p>“Eating brunch in the dining hall.” Charon answers, “He is expecting you.”</p><p>“I’m sure he is.” John mutters, “Thanks.”</p><p>He makes his way back through the long winding halls of the Continental to the elaborate dining room. John notes the new wave of people turning to look at him as he moves through the hall and resists the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>Winston sits in a back corner, sipping on brandy, the newspaper laid in front of him.</p><p>“Good morning, Jonathan.”</p><p>“Winston.” John takes a seat across from him, “Brandy for breakfast?”</p><p>“I had a slice of toast.” Winston folds up the newspaper. “How are you this morning?”</p><p>“I’d be better if everyone stopped looking at me.” John mutters, staring down a man a few tables over who had been watching him intently. He looks away and John looks back with a heavy sigh.</p><p>“DeLuca may not have gotten what he initially wanted from you,” Winston says, “But I’ll admit, his retaliation is impressive.”</p><p>John shoots the Manager a glare.</p><p>“Glare all you want, it’s true. With that contract, DeLuca single-handedly revealed your weakness to the world, while simultaneously reminding the entire Underworld that <em>even you are human.</em>” Winston offers a small smile, “That said, you did well by beating a man to death in your girlfriend’s home.”</p><p>“She’s not my girlfriend.” John sits back in his seat, “Word gets around fast.”</p><p>“Yes, well, with such a substantial hit upon her head, her house didn’t stay empty for long. And believe me, Jonathan, you’d rather have people thinking she was your girlfriend, or at the very least your lover, than knowing the truth. It would make you look weak and neither of you can afford that right now.”</p><p><em>Bullshit politics </em>John thinks as he looks away. But Winston was right. He needed to appear stronger now than ever.</p><p>“But again, you beating a man to death with your bare hands has helped to remind everyone beginning to think of human of exactly what you are capable of.”</p><p>John rolls his eyes.</p><p>“How is she holding up?”</p><p>“Honestly?” He looks up at Winston and admits, “Hels is tough. She’s doing better than I am with all this.”</p><p>“Judging by your state over the weekend, I’m not surprised.”</p><p>John inclines his head at the blow. It was fair, he knows. Even Helen had laughed at how much of a mess he had been.</p><p>Letting out a breath, John asks, “What am I looking at?”</p><p>“If you were anyone else, the entire Underworld would have already descended upon you.” Winston says pointedly, “Instead, you’re looking at mostly contractors and legacies who have yet to earn their stripes.”</p><p>“Novices.”</p><p>“Largely, but that is how we all began.”</p><p>“And it only takes one.” John finishes.</p><p>How fragile humanity was, John thinks, to have the light in one’s eyes taken by a flash of steel or a piece of shrapnel.</p><p> In the past, that fact had served to help him. To make his job easier, knowing how breakable humans all were. Now…</p><p>Helen was that breakable; that fragile.</p><p>“Indeed.” Winston nods, “I hope for her sake, she is safe.”</p><p>John nods, not trusting their privacy enough to reveal specifics, but confirms, “She’s safe.”</p><p>John finds himself lingering on the word. <em>Safe, safe, safe</em>. Helen is safe. And that’s the only reason he’s able to breathe right now.</p><p>He swallows but forces himself to add, “For now.”</p><p>He takes out his phone. He brings up the message from earlier and hands it to the Manager. Winston adjusts his glasses, taking it and reading. He hums before handing the phone back to John.</p><p>“Am I right in assuming you’ll be attending the meeting?”</p><p>John nods.</p><p>Winston hums, “And if DeLuca makes the same demands as when he first took your Helen?”</p><p>John still doesn’t have a good answer. He’ll search for another way out but, the reality is, he’ll do whatever he has to.</p><p>Apparently, he doesn’t need to answer. Winston sighs, seeing it written all over John’s face.</p><p>“Is she worth all of this?” Winston asks, not unkindly. “I understand that you care for her, that you love her, but is she truly worth the consequences from this hopeless endeavor?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>Winston drinks down his brandy, “Do you have a plan?”</p><p>“Not yet. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one.”</p><p>“It won’t be easy.” Winston confirms, “You want to get out of this alive, while protecting the woman you love, getting revenge, and avoiding the wrath of the High Table. Something will have to give.”</p><p><em>Whatever it takes</em>.</p><p>He would do whatever it takes to get Helen through to the other side.</p><p>But until he can, John thinks, he still has it within his power to remind the rest of the Underworld exactly what he is capable of.</p><p>“I have seven hours to kill before I need to meet with DeLuca. I don’t suppose you can tell me who’s taking the contract?”</p><p>“As the Manager of this establishment, you know I can’t.” Winston says with a chastising tone, “However, I might be able to point you in the direction of a certain bookie, holding certain bets with certain odds, about who will be the one to assassinate a certain well-protected therapist.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. That's found in the last witness before the wave hits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winston didn’t even need to give John a name. The moment he mentioned the bookie, John was off.</p><p>John tended to avoid socializing with anyone, let alone other assassins, but he was familiar with Dex’s. Everyone was. The bar was a few blocks away from the Continental and while it was part of the Underworld as much as the hotel, it was not a safe haven. Business could, and often was, conducted at the bar.</p><p>John slips in through the back, avoiding the bar floor entirely. Although he doubts its particularly crowded during the midday hours, John is well-aware of the prevalence of alcoholic assassins. He wonders what Helen would have to say about that.</p><p>
  <em>A culture of widely accepted substance abuse. Lack of appropriate and effective coping skills.</em>
</p><p>He wonders if her voice will always live on in his head, even if he survives the week and successfully disentangles his life from hers. If he’ll grow old, alone, but hearing her in his mind. It might drive him mad but he is far more afraid of the day he stops hearing her.</p><p>John cuts through the kitchen to the back office where Oliver, the youngest of the Dexter brothers, collected intelligence and ran odds.</p><p>Usually, John stayed out of this part of the Underworld. Gambling had never been one of his vices. Even when his name was involved in the betting pools, he tended to just ignore it and just go about his business.</p><p>But this was different.</p><p>He doesn’t knock as he walks in through the open door.</p><p>Ollie Dexter has never been a true player in the game. His father had been fairly prominent assassin in New York, his mother a pusher for the Walkers crime firm in England. Both had retired when the boys were born but, since there was no getting out of the Underworld, they had chosen, instead, to settle within it.</p><p>Thus, Dexter’s was born.</p><p>The older boy, William, was decent in a brawl. He dealt more with the front end of the bar, often separating fights between drunk and aggressive assassins before things got out of hand. Ollie, on the other hand, rarely left the back. John was fairly certain the man didn’t have the physical strength to squeeze the life out of anybody, nor the knowledge of how to properly hold a gun.</p><p>He was a portly man with a large beer gut that was a direct result of being based inside a bar. He had receding blond hair that he kept oiled back.</p><p>While he usually dressed in a track suit, he was stripped down to a white tank top with grease stains when John walks in.</p><p>“Betting don’t open ‘til noon.” Ollie says, not looking up from the desk.</p><p>John doesn’t move.</p><p>“I said, the betting don’t open ‘til—” He looks up and his round face turns stark white. “Ah, fuck,” Ollie swears, jumping to his feet at the sight of the Boogeyman standing in his doorway, “Listen, John, it’s just business. You understand—”</p><p>“Give me the spreads.”</p><p>“Really didn’t mean anything by it…”</p><p>John shakes his head in exasperation. As if he doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than the lowly worm making bets on other’s misfortunes.</p><p>“The spreads.” John repeats expectantly.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah of course.”</p><p>Ollie pushes the papers across his desk, quickly trying to flip through the various sheets. He finds it after nearly a minute of frantic scrambling and tugs it out with shaking hands, passing it over to John.</p><p>He scans it, memorizing the names, the odds. Making mental note of organizations that might back them or strong alliances to be wary of.</p><p>Many of the names, he doesn’t actually recognize. New comers looking for an easy path to fame and fortune.</p><p>It won’t matter, he thinks. John had contacts in nearly every faction under the Table. He had sources who could get information on the highest members of the Underworld and others who could sink into the tiniest, ugliest cracks and listen for whispers.</p><p>John thrusts the paper back to Ollie. “You want to keep this pool going? I want daily updates on who’s being favored and who’s pulling ahead.”</p><p>Ollie’s eyes go wide, “Uh, yeah. Sure thing, Mister Wick.”</p><p>John leaves the office, taking out his phone. The odds were currently favoring an independent contractor called Verdugo.</p><p>John was familiar with the assassin even though they ran in different circles. Verdugo tended to migrate between several different cities with Los Zetas connections. Though he was not a member, he worked with the organization more often than not.</p><p>It seems that only chance had the assassin in New York when Helen’s contract went wide. Just another stroke of bad luck.</p><p>As he walks back down the hall, John types out a quick message to one of his Zetas contacts, asking for the location of Verdugo.</p><p>He slips out of the bar without notice but, it appears, he hadn’t been as careful going in. Three assassins are waiting for him in the alley when he steps outside.</p><p>John lets out a small sigh as he walks down the two steps.</p><p>They’re all young. He can picture Helen in his head calling them <em>just babies</em>. But they were all armed. Two hang back, each with a gun raised in his direction while another stands closer, holding a knife.</p><p> “Don’t suppose you want to make this easy for us, old man.” The one in front, their chosen leader, says expectantly.</p><p>He feels a twinge of compassion for them that he blames on Helen. They might be killers, he thinks, but they’re still young. He’d never been a good judge of age, but he’d put them all in their twenties. While he didn’t give warnings, as a rule, it prompts him to ask, “You sure this is your best idea?”</p><p>“There’s three of us.” The leader says, like it’s obvious.</p><p>“I can see that. It won’t make a difference.”</p><p>There’s a flash of anger in the leader’s eyes. Already, he’s taking the smack talk personally. He wouldn’t last long in the Underworld, John thinks. Whether by his hand or another’s, the kid doesn’t have what it takes. Not yet, at least. And with impulses like that, likely not every.</p><p>“Just tell us where your girlfriend is, and we’ll let you live.”</p><p>Bartering was never a good sign. It implied lack of training, which tells John this isn’t a kid from one of the schools. He hasn’t been trained. He’s likely just a street kid, trying to make a name for himself. Maybe a low-level drug pusher, trying to rise up in the ranks of his gang.</p><p>John takes a step forward and the kid holds up the knife in front of him. His eyes are wide, like he’s surprised that John isn’t bending to his will just because he has a knife, “Stop moving!”</p><p>“You’re holding that wrong.” John tells him.</p><p>The kid’s eyes flash towards the knife in his hand and John uses the moment of distraction to throw his palm into the open throat. The kid drops the knife and John catches it, spinning the kid around as he chokes. He grabs the leader by the hair and pulls up, exposing the neck further, and guiding him to stand directly in front of John as a shield.</p><p>He gags and John spins the knife, holding the blade just above the neck.</p><p>The back-up kid had brought stand in stunned disbelief at the speed that John had managed to disarm and counterattack their leader.</p><p>“Guns down.” John says, watching as the boy and the girl look to each other, before lowering the guns. “Kick them over.”</p><p>There’s a pause and then they listen. Metal skids loudly across the concrete, echoing in the alley. When the guns pass John, he pushes the leader forward. The kid stumbles towards his friends.</p><p>He looks back to John with a glare, rubbing his throat as he turns back around. Before John can offer a warning, the kid charges him, striking forward.</p><p>John steps to the side and lets the momentum carry the kid before he kicks out a leg. The leader flies, hitting the ground face-first, landing hard.</p><p>John has had road rash before. It stings like a bitch.</p><p>The girl screams as she rushes an attack, her movements slightly more controlled but too clinical. She knew the theories but didn’t have the experience. John blocks the first strike, and the second. She brings a leg up to kick him and John catches the ankle in the air, pulling it up and dropping her quick before she can gain any sort of control back.</p><p>From the ground, she tries to kick him as her counterpart attempts to dive for the gun nearest to John’s feet. John steps on the outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding the girl’s vicious kicks. She pushes up on the ground and flips to her feet.</p><p>John uses the moment to kick the face of kid reaching for the gun, noting the crack and the gush of blood pouring from the nose.</p><p>The girl tries to kick again, this time keeping her aim lower, more grounded towards his center of gravity.</p><p>From the corner of his eye, he notes that the leader is getting back to his feet, bleeding all on down his cheek.</p><p>He turns his attention back towards the girl. Her kick is well-executed, but she forgot the knife in his hand. He uses it to block and she cries out as the dagger embeds itself into the bottom of her foot. John holds onto it as she rips her foot away and turns to throw it at their approaching leader.</p><p>It strikes him in the eye-socket. For a moment he stands, in utter shock, pain etched on his face, before he falls to the ground.</p><p>The girl, now strongly favoring her good foot holds her ground. While clearly in pain, she doesn’t make a sound.</p><p>The male henchman clutches at his nose.</p><p>John looks between them, “You want to finish this or would the two of you like to get yourselves to a doctor?”</p><p>The girl growls out, “Fuck you—”</p><p>“Sasha! Stop.” The boy on the ground spits out blood, “Yu ne moxhet vernut’sya iz smerti!”</p><p>
  <em>You cannot come back from death.</em>
</p><p>John looks to the girl, easily switching to Russian, “Slushay svoyego druga. Srazis’ v drugoy den.”</p><p>
  <em>Listen to your friend. Fight another day.</em>
</p><p>She glares at him for a moment, the anger so clear in her gaze. And then it softens as she lets herself stumble back into the wall.</p><p>“Blyad!” She curses.</p><p>John picks up the gun at his feet, because he is likely going to need it sooner or later.</p><p>He leaves them in the alley, along with the body of their dead friend. He hopes that the small act of mercy isn’t in vain.</p><p>John wonders, idly, if Helen would be proud of him.</p><p>He checks his phone as he leaves the alley, having idly felt it vibrate during the scramble.</p><p>The message is from his Los Zetas contact, revealing <em>Verdugo is @ Continental</em>.  </p><p>Disappointing, John thinks, considering he can’t do shit about that.</p><p>He texts back <em>if he leaves, for any reason, let me know.</em></p><p>The second name on the spreadsheet from Ollie listed Kate O’Connell. John knew Kate about as well as anybody. She’d been a hell of a munitions expert in the IRA back in the day. Until she’d been kicked out for being a drunk.</p><p>Another assassin fallen victim to substances.</p><p>Drunk or not, John thought, she was still brilliant. But she was better at war time ops, blowing up bridges to stop shipments or helping to fake someone’s death with a car bomb.</p><p>Unfortunately for Kate, most hits called for a certain level of stealth or concealment. John was fairly certain that Kate was shit at hand-to-hand and lacked the interest to put much time into weapons trainings. She just didn’t care much for anything below an grenade.</p><p>But that meant contracts were limited to either very specific requests for explosions, which were rare, or open contracts with no requirements, which were highly sought after.</p><p>John had read Helen’s contract. There was no stipulation that her body had to be in one piece.</p><p>He feels a wave of nausea at the thought and pushes it down, burying it deep until he can afford to let himself think of such things.</p><p>He knew where to find Kate without having to reach out to any of his contacts. She spent her days working at an Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen. John makes his way back to the Continental by foot, calling for his car as he does so that it’s ready when he arrives.</p><p>He drives the rest of the way to the pub, parking far enough away that he won’t have to worry about Kate trying to set his car on fire. Again.</p><p>What was it she had said the last time? <em>“Nothing personal, Johnny-boy. Just like to see shiny things go boom.</em>”</p><p>The bell dings as he walks into the pub. Kate stands at the bar, chopping up garnishes. She looks up at the soft <em>ding</em> and calls out, “Heya, Johnny.”</p><p>He withholds a wince at the nickname as he makes his way to the bar. “Kate.”</p><p>Her reddish-brown hair is shaved to about half an inch. She had tried, for years, to grow it out but complained about the smell each and every time it caught on fire. It had only been in the past few years that she had given up and shaved it all.</p><p>“What can I get for you?” She asks, as he sits down, setting down the paring knife. John keeps an eye on the tiny blade even as she moves towards the shelves of alcohol.</p><p>“You got Blanton’s?”</p><p>Kate snorts, “This ain’t the Continental. I got Jamie, Bushmills, and Teeling.”</p><p>“Teeling, then.”</p><p>Kate grabs the bottle and a glass and pours a out a few fingers. “Don’t suppose you’re here to catch up.” She says, sliding him the drink.</p><p>John shakes his head, “Afraid not. I’m here to ask you to drop the Helen Kingston contract.”</p><p>Kate leans forward on the counter, “Now why would I do that? Four million is a pretty penny.”</p><p>“Self-preservation. You’ll never get close enough to hurt her.”</p><p>She regards him thoughtfully, “What’s she to you, then? I don’t buy the girlfriend thing everybody’s been talking ‘bout.”</p><p>“Why not?” He asks, genuinely curious.</p><p>Kate huffs, “Please. Aside from the fact that you know better, we both know you’re far too broken to ever invite another into your miserable existence. So, who is she?”</p><p>Fair enough, John thinks as he sips the subpar whiskey.</p><p>He answers with <em>a </em>truth, “She’s my best friend.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Kate hums and John can tell that she doesn’t quite believe him, “I don’t know, Johnny. You don’t seem the type to have anything more than casual friends.”</p><p>“For a long time, I would have agreed with you,” he admits, “Until I met her.”</p><p>The assassin inclines her head and John is now certain that she doesn’t believe, “Uh huh. Where’d you meet, then?”</p><p>“A café.”</p><p>“Spend a lot of times in café’s, do you, John?”</p><p>“On occasion.” He sets the whiskey to the side, “Drop the contract, Kate.”</p><p>Now the Irish woman rolls her eyes dramatically, “You—John Wick—are asking me to give up a substantial hit on someone because she’s your<em> best friend</em>?”</p><p>“I’m asking you to spare her, so I don’t have to kill you.” John corrects.</p><p>“And here I thought we were friends, too.”</p><p>“A friend wouldn’t target the woman I love.”</p><p>“Ah,” Kate seems to bounce a bit on her feet, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Your best friend or the woman you love?”</p><p>John inclines his head, “She’s both.”</p><p>“But not your girlfriend.” Kate confirms, “This unrequited, then? Because I imagine it might make it easier to move on from her if she were dead.”</p><p>John ignores the remarks, “Are you willing to drop the contract?”</p><p>Kate sighs, almost seeming disappointed in his one-track mind, and shakes her head, “No, John. I’m not.”</p><p>He nods in understanding, true regret in his voice as he says, “That’s a shame.”</p><p>For a moment, neither of them move.</p><p>Kate jumps forward, reaching for the knife from earlier. She grabs it just as John snatches his whiskey. John throws the drink up and into her face. Kate releases the knife and it sails past John in her momentary blindness.</p><p>John slips from his stool as Kate grabs the bottle of Teeling and angrily smashes it against the counter. Whiskey jumps in all directions as she jumps and slides over the counter with her makeshift weapon. She strikes through the air, slashing with the bottle.</p><p>John leans, avoiding it on his right, then again with the left as she attempts to cut him again.</p><p>With her free hand, she throws a punch. John blocks it with his forearm, kicking out. He strikes her side with his foot and she stumbles, quickly righting herself.</p><p>John rushes forward, slamming his hand into the base of the bottle. It flies from her grip, shattering across the floor.</p><p>Kate growls, jumping up and latching an arm around John’s neck in an attempt to choke him.</p><p>John grabs her arm before quickly spinning and bending forward before he loses breath, sending her falling to the floor.</p><p>She manages to roll back to her feet, prepared to strike out but John catches her head between his hands. With a quick turn, the assassin’s neck snaps.</p><p>He releases his grip and she falls to the ground, dead.</p><p>John feels a momentary twinge of sadness. He never wanted it to come to this, but that sadness is quickly overtaken with relief.</p><p>Kate would never be able to hurt Helen.</p><p>Although there were still hundreds of others willing to try. Others he could send a message too.</p><p>In the hours before John made his way to the Gilded Rose, he manages to wipe out nearly half the people on Ollie Dexter’s spreads, along with a few others who got in his way. It didn't feel like enough. His skin still itched from the knowledge that all his work hadn't put a dent into the people looking to do her harm.</p><p>But he does what he can in the time he has.</p><p>When he arrives at the Gilded Rose, there is blood marring the white of his shirt, having soaked through his suit jacket. He makes it a point not to change, even though he has a clean suit in his car.</p><p>Although he likely already knew, John wanted DeLuca to be very aware of how he had spent his day.</p><p>The host at the establishment looks at John with wide eyes as he comes through the door.</p><p>“Mist-mister Wick, sir. Mister DeLuca is expecting you.”</p><p>“I’m sure he is.”</p><p>“This-this-this way, si-sir.”</p><p>John follows the host across the main floor, avoiding stares from other patrons, as he is brought to a private room in the back.</p><p>A guard stands on either side of the door. One of them stops him, scanning him with a metal detector and giving a quick pat down for weapons.</p><p>When the guard is satisfied, he pushes open the door into the back room.</p><p>DeLuca sits alone, a glass of red wine in one hand and a phone in the other. He’s scrolling through some kind of feed that he closes as John walks in, setting the phone face down on the table.</p><p>“Mister Wick. Thank you for joining me.”</p><p>John doesn’t reply as he takes a seat.</p><p>“You are truly a man of few words.”</p><p>John gives him a pointed look. He isn’t here to waste time.</p><p>“Believe me when I say, I did not want it to come to this. I had hoped to have already resolved the issue by now.” DeLuca sets down his wine and leans forward, “Alas, you had to make things more complicated.”</p><p>“You took the woman I love from her bed and held her hostage.” John says, aware of the anger that line his words, “Did you think I would not retaliate?”</p><p>“I had hoped you would see fit to fulfill the bargain that we struck.”</p><p>“Bargain?” John questions, “You threatened her safety.”</p><p>DeLuca waves a hand, “You make it sound like it was personal. None of this is personal, Mister Wick. It’s just business.”</p><p>“And you’ll need to remember that it was <em>just business </em>when I tear you limb from limb.”</p><p>DeLuca’s nostrils flare and John notes a wave of fear breaking over the mafiaso. “I don’t think I need to remind you that if you kill me, the hit on Miss Kingston remains. And while your attempt to kill anyone taking the contract is admirable, it won’t make a difference. You can’t be everywhere at once.”</p><p>John <em>knows </em>this. He knows he can’t keep her safe forever, from everyone. It makes the hate inside of him well all the more with the knowledge that he can’t do <em>anything</em> about it. Not while DeLuca holds the contract that is keeping him in line.</p><p>“So, what do you want?” John asks.</p><p>“Italy.”</p><p>“I can’t give you Italy.” He snarls, stating the obvious.</p><p>“But you <em>can </em>give me the Camorra. There are still three days until Lorenzo D’Antonio and his daughter return to Rome. Three days for you to kill the family and dismantle the Camorra.”</p><p>There it is. John had expected as much.</p><p>John will kill the D’Antonio’s.</p><p>After killing a member of the High Table, John will be targeted both by what is left of the Camorra and the Table, itself. And there is no hiding from the High Table, not for long. Not forever.</p><p>He’ll be killed for this but Helen… she’ll be safe.</p><p>Without his name attached to hers, there would be no reason for her to ever be targeted again. She can go back to her practice and her house and find another person to take that Friday 4pm slot. Someone with less problems, who won’t follow her home like a stray.</p><p>Or she could move. Start over someplace new, where she might feel safer after everything that had happened over the week.</p><p>He’d set it up with the Executer <em>months </em>ago that Helen would be his beneficiary. She would get his money, his properties. She joked about stealing his books, but they would be hers.</p><p>Hell, she could retire if she wanted.</p><p>And Marcus, he was certain, would do him the final favor of looking out for her. Checking in every once in a while, to make sure she was safe and happy.</p><p>Maybe it was for the best.</p><p>Maybe this was how it was supposed to be all along.</p><p>“And you’ll drop the contract?”</p><p>“I’ll consider it.”</p><p>“That’s not good enough!”</p><p>“I’m afraid we’re in a precarious situation, Mister Wick. If I drop the contract, you’ll kill me.”</p><p>John wanted nothing more than to watch the life drain from DeLuca’s eyes. But he would forgo revenge if it meant keeping Helen alive and safe.</p><p>“I’ll give you my word that I won’t.”</p><p>“Schematics, in our world. You won’t kill me yourself, but you’ll hire someone else to do the job.”</p><p>John knew that would be too easy. And while he hated to go a step further, he wasn’t sure he had another option.</p><p>Besides, if the High Table went after him, which they surely would, the marker wouldn’t mean shit anyway. At John’s death, it would be returned to the Continental, written off as an expired marker and melted down to be recycled.</p><p>And, if by some miracle John lived, DeLuca would be unable to use the marker. The moment John fulfilled it; he would no longer be bound by the rules and he could kill the bastard.</p><p>“I’ll give you a marker. An oath, to you, that I won’t kill or conspire to kill you.”</p><p>DeLuca considers it, “A marker from John Wick is worth quite a lot.”</p><p>It was true, but John took a bit of pleasure in knowing that DeLuca would never get to use it.</p><p>“I’ll accept your offer.”</p><p>“I want the contract removed now.” John says quickly.</p><p>“The contract will be removed when the D’Antonio’s are dead.” DeLuca argues, shaking his head. “Although I admire your tenacity, you have nothing to barter with save a marker that, we both know, might never be used.”</p><p>The Syndicate heir seems to delight in the power he holds and John almost wishes Helen were here to break him down again.</p><p>DeLuca hands John a piece of paper. “This is Senor D’Antonio’s itinerary for the next few days. He is staying with his mistress in Manhattan. Gianna, at the Continental. Santino, of course, already lives in New York. I’ll be in touch when all three are dead.”</p><p>John folds and pockets the list as he stands, no longer being able to stand being in DeLuca’s presence.</p><p>“Oh, and Mister Wick?” John glances back, “Give my regards to Miss Kingston.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Marveling at god</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marcus had faced armies. Had gone head-to-head with mob bosses and mafiaso assholes. He’d been shot, stabbed, tortured and looked death straight in the eyes on more than one occasion. Every encounter had only made him wiser. Each scar had only made him stronger.</p><p>And despite all his prowess, his strength, his wisdom, Marcus was fairly certain he wasn’t going to survive Helen Kingston.</p><p>John had warned him.</p><p>Hell, Helen had warned him.</p><p>He’d taken it as a joke. Just because John had fallen victim to sharing his feelings certainly didn’t mean that Marcus would.</p><p>After John had left, they made small talk. They watched a movie, and then another. Helen would read until her eyes hurt and then they’d watch another movie.</p><p>It started with a simple question, asked over chopping vegetables to have with dinner.</p><p>“How’d you get involved in the Underworld?”</p><p>“I saved a man’s life in Vietnam. The son of a prominent member of the mob. When we came back to the States, he recruited me."</p><p>And Helen had seemed genuinely interested. She asked questions so casually, he hadn’t even realized that they were delving into his past. Not until their plates were in the sink and Helen was curled up on the couch, facing him in his chair and nodding along to a story from his early days as a New York City mobster.</p><p>Before he knew it, he was lost in his own past, searching to understand things he thought he had left behind.</p><p>“It just seemed like the right course to take. My father did it, his father did it. I think a part of me thought if I followed in their footsteps and joined the army, things would start to make sense. Like I would understand how my father viewed the world.”</p><p>“How he viewed the world or how he viewed you?”</p><p>The question stabs at him and Marcus looks away, “My mother used to defend him all the time. He never loved us the way he was supposed to. She said that the war had damaged him—that when they were younger, he was caring and loving. But when he came back, he had a hard time adjusting.</p><p>“I wanted to understand why he couldn’t get over it. Why he couldn’t leave the war behind. Why—” He stops himself.</p><p>“Why you couldn’t be enough.” Her voice is soft, almost hypnotic, lulling him in further.</p><p>He nods, despite himself. “He had a great job, a good house, a family… and it was never enough.”</p><p>Helen nods along, “You know, every generation has its experiences, it’s rights of passages, it’s issues, it’s stories. Your generation was built in that post-war haze that focused on going back to what had been normal before the war. Except there is no going back from that sort of cultural upheaval. Time changes, and values with it.</p><p>“And in that day and age, we didn’t really understand the consequences of war on individuals. So, your father came back, as your grandfather had a generation before, and tried to make sense of peace after having lived in a warzone.”</p><p>Marcus nods, “And I get that it must have been tough for him. I do. But then why get married? Why bring another person into your fucked-up life? Why bring children into the picture?”</p><p>“I can’t answer to your father’s motives.” Helen says softly, “At best, I can guess that he probably felt like it was his duty to rebuild America. To have a family and try to put the past behind him. But the past always has a way of catch up with us. And it wasn’t fair to the rest of your family and your father’s trauma is not an excuse for the pain that he put you through.</p><p>“In therapy, we use a term called ‘intergenerational trauma’ to explain this. It’s the idea that severe trauma, severe distress can follow each generation. Your grandfather probably brought his experiences from the Great War into your father’s life. And your father brought those experiences, combined with his own from the second World War into yours.”</p><p>“Didn’t know there was a term for it. But it’s why I don’t ever want children.” Marcus admits, jarring himself with the fact that he admitted out loud how much his father had affected him. “I couldn’t bare to pass that down again.”</p><p>“Which is entirely within your right.” Helen’s calming voice eases his anxiety. “A lot of people, particularly from the baby boomer generation and before, believe that we have some sort of duty to procreate. The remnants of generations’ past, I suppose. But the reality of the matter is <em>we don’t owe anybody</em>.”</p><p>He shivers at her words and wonders if she notices.</p><p>He’d laughed at John for being tricked into revealing his life to a pretty face, but it was so <em>good</em> to say the things out loud that haunted him at two in the morning when he was unable to sleep.</p><p>“I always thought I had moved on from all this.” Marcus shakes his head, “That I left my father back in Idaho. Thoughts creep in every now and then but when I work, I can forget about it.”</p><p>Helen nods, “We forget how broken we are when we start to fixate on something else. But, eventually, we’re forced to look back at ourselves and face the truth: distracted is not the same as healed.”</p><p>And that cuts deep, but not as deep as the thoughts simmering beneath the surface. The knowledge that he had spent decades hiding behind jobs and contracts to ignore the rejection and isolation that seemed to follow him.</p><p>“So, there is no moving on, no healing.”</p><p>Helen offers him a small, empathetic smile, “I had this conversation with John just yesterday. We tend to think of healing as linear. Something happens to us, we give it time, and it heals. But that’s not always the case. You should know as well as anybody—not every scar heals. Sometimes a bone doesn’t set right.”</p><p>She lets out a soft sigh as she tries to find a way to explain, “Try to think of it in terms of a broken leg. If your broken bone is tended to right away, if it’s splinted properly, if you’re cared for during your recovery, it will heal. Sometimes even stronger than it was before.</p><p>“On the other hand, maybe you’re alone. You splint your own bone the best you can, but there is no one with you to share the burden. No one to help you heal. The bone may mend but, oftentimes, it won’t heal correctly. Maybe you walk with a limp. Or maybe you walk fine, except on days when it rains. The trauma comes back, haunting you.</p><p>“Then, of course, your bone breaks and you ignore it. You try to stand but your leg can’t support you anymore. You pretend that nothing has happened, but all you do is injure yourself the more. So, what happens, then?”</p><p>“If you can’t heal, you’re dead.”</p><p>“In the animal kingdom, you would be.” Helen says, “But we are <em>human</em>. We are resilient and we can adapt and, even when we feel like we are, we are not alone. So, what happens if your bone doesn’t heal correctly?”</p><p>Marcus feels a shiver travel through his body, “We re-break the bone.”</p><p>“Very good.” Helen rewards him with a real smile this time, “We re-break the bone and we try again. And, most of the time, trauma isn’t quite so severe. Most of the time, we’re stuck somewhere in the middle. Our wounds heal, but they still come back, aching on days when it rains.”</p><p>He sighs, “But what does that mean? That even if I make peace with my father’s memory, I’ll still feel him haunting me now and again?”</p><p>“There are no guarantees, but it’s likely. We all experience trauma differently but it seldom disappears all together.”</p><p>Idly, Marcus hears the sound of a car on gravel but he shakes his head, still lost in his own thoughts, “And what, there’s no way to make it disappear?”</p><p>“Not permanently. There are skills you can learn to help cope with the memories or to restructure your experiences. But trauma engrains itself within us.”</p><p>“It’s stupid.” Marcus spits out, “I came out of ‘Nam without feeling a thing. I’ve killed more people than I can count, and I don’t think about it. But the thought of my father’s voice makes me want to scream.”</p><p>“The events that happen in our formative years leave far deeper scars than what comes later. You spent your childhood seeking the approval of a man who probably lost sight of who he was long before you were born.”</p><p>The door opens and Marcus catches sight of John, carrying a couple grocery bags and a suitcase.</p><p>“And you can’t hold yourself responsible for that.” Helen adds softly, checking over her shoulder. Her eyes scan John, assessing for injury before she asks, “Is that your blood?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Marcus swallows, forcing the heaviness weight on him back down his throat and motioning to the bags John is carrying. Still, his voice is gruff as he asks, “You go shopping?”</p><p>“Just picked up a few things. Soap, a toothbrush. Better coffee.” John reaches in the bag and pulls out a pint of ice cream, reveling in the way her eyes light up as he hands it to her.</p><p>“Oh, fuck yes.” She takes it and undoes the plastic wrap locking the lid on, looking at Marcus as she does, “Do you need some. too?”</p><p>“Marcus won’t eat that much sugar.”</p><p>“What I need is Cognac.” Marcus mutters.</p><p>Helen hums, “Was Cognac also your father’s drink?”</p><p>Marcus looks up sharply, “Pass me the damn ice cream.”</p><p>Helen tosses the pint to him and John sighs, “Hels, I thought I said not to break him.”</p><p>“I didn’t! We were just having a discussion.”</p><p>“Uh huh.” John watches as Marcus slips into the kitchen for a spoon, “I’ve never seen Marcus eat refined sugars. Ever.”</p><p>“Physical health is only one facet of being. Ice cream tends to the mind and the soul.” She says knowingly.</p><p>Marcus plops down on the couch next to Helen and hands her a spoon.</p><p>John raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Marcus says, digging the spoon into the ice cream, “I have unprocessed trauma.”</p><p>He looks from Marcus to Helen, the latter of whom just shrugs.</p><p>“Couldn’t last one day without breaking somebody’s psyche?” John teases.</p><p>Helen swallows a mouthful of ice cream, “I can’t turn it off any more than you can stop counting exits, looking for weapons.”</p><p>Marcus nods, “I say next time we have a tough case, we just send her in.”</p><p><em>Not a chance in hell</em>, John thinks even knowing that Marcus is largely joking. Still, he couldn’t deny that it would be hilarious to drop Helen in the middle of the Continental and just <em>watch</em>.</p><p>She leans to the side on the couch, looking up at him with her warm brown eyes. “Did you have dinner?” He shakes his head and Helen sighs, “We saved you a plate, just in case. Go shower, I’ll heat it up.”</p><p>“It’s okay—”</p><p>“Go shower.” She says again, leaving no room for argument as she stands, “And change in the bathroom! I don’t want you getting blood on our bed.”</p><p><em>Our bed</em>. He tries not to read to much into that but <em>holy fuck</em> the way that sounded… The casual way that she said it felt so fucking right even if he knew he was reading far too much into the innocent statement. He pushes it out of his head as he acquiesces with a soft, “Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>She swats at his side the best she can from her seat on the couch to prompt him forward. John sets the grocery bags with actual food on the counter and heads to the back. He tosses the suitcase on the bed and finds his own sleepwear from the night before.</p><p> Grabbing the bag with the hygiene products, he disappears into the bathroom.</p><p>He showers quickly, watching the tub stain red then wash clear as he cleans the blood from his body. It had been a long day, as he had known it would be. And while John had hoped that DeLuca would change his demands, he had been correct in assuming that he wouldn’t.</p><p>Already, a clock was moving against him.</p><p>Three days until Senor D’Antonio and Gianna returned to Rome. Three days in which to kill him and his heirs.</p><p>Marcus had said they would find a way out of it, but John wasn’t so sure.</p><p>He’s run every scenario he can think of in his head on the drive home. For four hours, he contemplated possible courses of actions that he could take. They all resulted in either Helen’s death, which was unacceptable, or his own, which was unfortunate.</p><p>He cut the shower short, anxious to see Helen after spending a day dealing with people who wanted to do her harm. See for himself that she was safe and uninjured. Let himself feel a glimmer of joy at the sound of her voice, the energy of her presence.</p><p>Cloak himself in her scent and sound and sight. Memorize it all just in case he was unable to make it through this week with his life.</p><p>He changes into his sleepwear and quickly towels his hair.</p><p>There’s food sitting in front of the armchair when he returns to the living room. A plate with vegetables, potatoes, and chicken. Helen and Marcus share the couch and are passing the ice cream back and forth to one another.</p><p>John idly wishes he could use his phone to snap a quick picture for Sofia. Marcus with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in his hand, a spoonful of chocolate ice cream aimed for his mouth…</p><p>Sof would have a field day with that.</p><p>Helen’s eyes meet his and he wonders, for the millionth time, what it would be like to kiss her.</p><p>He’s probably going to die anyway, already set for Hell. Would it be so wrong to steal a kiss before going to his death?</p><p>“Did you meet with DeLuca?” Marcus asks, snapping John out of his thoughts as he sits down with them.</p><p>He nods once, his eyes flitting to Helen. Not wanting to discuss it in front of her, John adds, “We’ll chat later.”</p><p>It’s clearly the wrong thing to say he realizes as her eyes flash.</p><p>“Oh, no. We’re not doing this.” She bemoans, “You don’t get to shut me out of this.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “Helen...”</p><p>“I have every right to know what’s going on.”</p><p>“You don’t need to be worrying about this!” He insists and watches as her entire body tenses.</p><p>“Marcus,” She says, and her voice is just a little too sweet for John, “Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”</p><p>Marcus, ice cream in hand, looks between them, “I mean, I’d rather stay and watch you demolish him but—”</p><p>“Marcus!” Helen and John say together and the older assassin laughs, sliding to his feet.</p><p>“Guess I’ll just go downstairs and see if anything new has magically appeared since yesterday.” He pats John on the shoulder on the way to the basement, “Good luck.”</p><p>Helen waits for the door to close before she speaks, “We are not doing this, John.”</p><p>“Doing what?” He asks, resigned.</p><p>“You’re not leaving me out of the loop! I know that you think you’re protecting me by keeping me in the dark from what is happening, but I can handle this.”</p><p>Again, he shakes his head, “It’s not about what you can handle, I <em>know </em>you can handle this, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to be worrying—”</p><p>“You don’t get to decide what I’m allowed to worry about.” She snaps, not unkindly. Helen pauses, sighing to herself. She moves down the couch so that she’s closer to where he sits and, gently, tries again, “John, I am doing what you ask. I’ve cut off contact from the world, I’m staying hidden. Meet me halfway here.”</p><p>His leg is shaking, she notes. His face is tense.</p><p>She reaches out across the space to where his hand sits on the armrest and lays her own atop. “I know things are going to get worse before they get better. But you trying to deal with this all on your own, without support, isn’t helping.”</p><p>He hesitates again, gathering his thoughts together before he admits, “I don’t want to let you know how bad it’s gotten. And not because I don’t think you can handle it,” He adds before she can say anything, “But because <em>I </em>don’t want to expose you to that. You might not like some of the things I might have to do.”</p><p>“We got to this point together.” Helen argues, “Hell, I’m more accountable than you are for this fiasco.”</p><p>John snorts, “No, you’re not.”</p><p>“I’m a licensed professional. I was the one in the position of power. I had a moral obligation to ensure the boundaries between us stayed clear. I knowingly violated that, okay? I got us to this point, too. So, please, let me help fix it.”</p><p>John lets out a breath, his shoulders settling. “I don’t like it. I don’t like involving you in this world more than you already are.”</p><p>“You don’t have to like it.” She reminds him, “But you’re going to deal with it, because I’m not going to <em>let</em> you carry the weight by yourself.”</p><p>There’s such force behind her words. And Christ, she would be <em>pissed</em> if he laid it all out. She would demand that he ignore DeLuca, even at the cost of her own life. And they would argue and fight about it, but ultimately, he would do whatever it takes.</p><p>But she’s not backing down and, while John has never been good at compromising, he is more than capable of recognizing when an opponent is going to fight until their last breath. She has that same look in her eye now.</p><p>“Okay.” He agrees. “Okay. But tomorrow? I… I don’t think I can handle that tonight.”</p><p>She nods and her hand tightens on his, squeezing momentarily, “Thank you.”</p><p>For a moment, she stays in place, looking at him. A small smile of thanks graces her face. He forces himself to look away from her lips.</p><p>“Marcus!” She calls, letting go of his hand and sitting back in her corner of the couch, “You can come back in.”</p><p>Marcus comes back up and makes a show of checking his watch, “Not even five minutes? Come on, John. That’s just sad.”</p><p>John smirks at his friend, “You think you can win an argument against her? Be my guest.”</p><p>Marcus winks at Helen and holds up the ice cream, “You want more?”</p><p>“Not now, thanks.” She replies and he puts the ice cream back into the freezer.</p><p>John takes a bite of his leftover, noting that this might be the first time anybody had ever thought to save dinner for him. It’s a little bit better knowing that Helen had thought of him when putting it away, certain it was not Marcus’s doing. Not that Marcus didn’t care, but he was more from the school of everybody fend for themselves.</p><p>Marcus settles on the couch and looks to Helen, “What did I miss?”</p><p>John finds himself smirking despite himself, “What, is she in charge now?”</p><p>“Have been since the beginning, but glad you’re catching on.” She says with a heart-stopping smile before looking back at Marcus, “Discussion is tabled until tomorrow.”</p><p>Marcus nods, “Fine by me. My head still fucking hurts.”</p><p>John smirks as he raises his fork, “Welcome to the club.”</p><p>Marcus shakes his head, “And you do this with her every week? Willingly?”</p><p>“It gets easier once you know what to expect.”</p><p>The older assassin looks to Helen, “We’re not making a habit of those discussions.”</p><p>“We don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”</p><p>John recognizes the look in her eyes. She’s an expert at subtle manipulation—letting you think you’re in control right up until the moment she snatches the rug out from under you. And by then, you’re too addicted to her kind words and soft stares to leave.</p><p>She’s magnificent.</p><p>Marcus sighs and glances at John, “How screwed am I?”</p><p>“Very.” Helen shoots him an amused glance and he feels his own gaze soften as he looks at her, “You know I wouldn’t change a thing.”</p><p>At least, about her.</p><p>Their circumstances on the other hand…</p><p>Her lips twitch slightly and <em>yeah</em>, John thinks, he’s going to do it. Not now. But before he goes off to face death, he’s going to kiss those soft, pink lips. He’s going to carry the taste of her with him to the next world.</p><p>Let that be how she remembers him—not as a broken man or as a murderer. But as someone who loved her completely.</p><p>That wouldn’t be so bad.</p><p>“Me, either.” She says and it takes <em>everything</em> inside of him not to fly across the room to her now.</p><p>“Yup!” Marcus says, very loudly, interrupting the moment that passes between them, “Therapy is <em>not </em>for me.”</p><p>Helen looks away, her cheeks tinged with pink. He watches her swallow before looking up at Marcus, “It’s not for everyone.” She admits, then teases, “Some people just can’t handle the weight and strength needed to address their inner battles.”</p><p>“<em>Listen</em>, Kingston…” Marcus says but there is humor in his voice, “If assassins actually started addressing the issues we all have with our parents, we wouldn't have the time kill <em>anybody</em>.”</p><p>She laughs at that, “God forbid.”</p><p>Marcus looks over her head, “Don’t you just want to set her on Winston? I want to know what’s going on in his head.”</p><p>“That’s the guy who operates New York, right?” Helen asks and John nods.</p><p>“That’s him. And, frankly, Marcus. I’d rather <em>not </em>know what’s going on in Winston’s head. Or anybody’s.” Looking back to Helen he adds, “I don’t know how you deal with knowing so many people’s thoughts.”</p><p>She shrugs a shoulder, “We all have our stories, but the same themes come up again and again.”</p><p>“Jung?” John asks.</p><p>“Very good.” Helen says, “Did you ever end up reading <em>The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious</em>?”</p><p>John nods, “I did.”</p><p>“Nerd alert!” Marcus coughs into his hand.</p><p>Helen and John both glare at him before she looks back to John, “I mean, you know my feelings on listening to anyone labeled an ‘expert’ but, at the very least, I agree that if you look close enough at peoples stories, you’ll find the same themes prevailing over nearly all of it.”</p><p>“And what are your thoughts on listening to experts?” Marcus asks.</p><p>John smirks, already knowing the answer, “Helen believes very strongly in subjective truth. Nothing can be taken at face value.”</p><p>Helen nods, “And people in the psych community tend to stick to their niches. The psychoanalytics stick to Freud, the REBT people stick to Ellis, Cognitive Behavioralists stick to Skinner. The reality is, they all <em>work</em> in their own ways. But to put all your stock in one school of thought, you’re going to miss out on a lot of relevant shit.”</p><p>Marcus smirks, “You talk with that mouth in your office?”</p><p>Helen inclines her head, “Only with John. But he’s got a thick skull. Sometimes you need to do things to catch his attention.”</p><p>“That thick skull is necessary to protect the small brain inside.”</p><p>John flips him off.</p><p>“He’s had a lot of undiagnosed concussions.” Marcus adds, ignoring the gesture.</p><p>“I’d smack you,” John comments, humor in his voice, “But I wouldn’t want to damage your hearing aids.”</p><p>Marcus smirks in response, glancing to Helen, “You don’t get to be my age in the Underworld without some wear and tear. You spend enough time around munitions and guns, your hearing is the first thing to go.” He looks over at John, “This one laughs now, but he’ll be <em>exactly </em>where I am in fifteen years. If he lives that long.”</p><p>Helen rolls her eyes, “Well, on that note, I’m going to get ready for bed.” Helen stands up, her hand brushing along John’s arm as she walks by. “Come to bed soon, okay?”</p><p>He nods, forcing himself to remember to breathe when she talks to him like that, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”</p><p>“Good. Night, Marcus.”</p><p>“Night, sweetheart.”</p><p>She disappears down the hall, watching her long after she disappears. There’s the sound of a door closing and a sink running. He can still feel where her fingers grazed his arm.</p><p>“Henry.”</p><p>John looks up at Marcus, blinking in confusion.</p><p>“Henry.” Marcus repeats, “It’s my middle name. Good strong name, you know, if you’re starting think of what you’ll name your children.”</p><p>“Fuck off.”</p><p>Marcus laughs, “Jesus, John, you’re fucking <em>gone</em>.”</p><p>John glares slightly, “Really? Calling her sweetheart?”</p><p>The older assassin rolls his eyes, “Calm down, Romeo. I prefer my women not have the ability to psychoanalyze me. I meant exactly what I said—she’s a sweetheart.”</p><p>He nods, relaxing slightly. He’s well aware of Helen’s allure, even platonically he understands the way she manages to pull people in. A kind word from her is enough to hook anyone and, before you can remember to think, you’ve bared your soul. A search for absolution that can only be found in the quiet of her eyes.</p><p>“She is.” John agrees.</p><p>Marcus nods, “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about the marker.”</p><p>John raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“I don’t need it. Not for doing this.”</p><p>“You’re doing me the favor of a lifetime.” John states the obvious. This was no small thing that Marcus was doing for him.</p><p>Marcus nods, “I was. But, truth is, I’m happy just to do this for her.”</p><p>John huffs a small laugh, “I get it. She pulls you in, doesn’t she? So fast you don’t even know you’re sinking.”</p><p>“She does that.” Marcus pauses, thoughtfully. He looks to John and asks, “How long the two of you going to keep playing this game?”</p><p>He looks away, “Marcus…”</p><p>“You are both <em>way</em> too smart to be playing stupid to the looks, the touches. If I didn’t know the two of you and we just met, I’d assume you were married with the way you act around each other.”</p><p>Shaking his head, John looks to his friend, “Let it go.”</p><p>“John—”</p><p>“Let it go.” John says again, “I promised her we wouldn’t talk about it without her but… things aren’t looking good. And, if by some miracle, I’m still alive at the end of all this, what can I offer her?”</p><p>“She knows exactly what you are and she doesn’t care. She still adores you.”</p><p>John can’t even begin to address that so he ignores it, “She’ll never be safe so long as her name is associated with mine.”</p><p>Marcus stares at him incredulously, “I think that particular ship already sailed.”</p><p>John pushes his hair back, frustrated, because Marcus is right on that note. Everything was already fucked. But there was still something looming over John that forced him to add, “She deserves better.”</p><p>“Definitely. But she still wants you.”</p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>“My ears may be shot to hell, but I’m not blind.”</p><p>John takes his plate, shaking his head as he stands up, “Goodnight, Marcus.”</p><p>“Night, dumbass.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Before he feels alone one final time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beta'd by the wonderful meetmeinthematinee :) &lt;3 Thanks love!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Helen has found her glasses by the time he makes it into the room but she’s still wearing his shirt. Either ignoring the fact that her own clothes are there or choosing to sleep in his.</p><p>He swallows at the possibility.</p><p>The overhead light is off but the lamp next to her side of the bed is on, allowing her to read from one of the books she brought. Lighting her in a soft, golden glow.</p><p>“What are you reading?” John asks as he walks over to the bed.</p><p>“Walden.” She angles the book so he can see one of his many copies of the text in her hands. The particular copy she holds has several of Thoreau’s essays included, as well.</p><p>His heart skips a beat as he swallows back the emotion that follows. Their silent exchange of books has always made him feel a little overwhelmed. But there was a difference between seeing a book he had mentioned on her bedside table and seeing her in his bed, reading it. Peering up at him over the pages as he climbs in next to her.</p><p>A beautiful fantasy coming to life before his eyes.</p><p>He pulls back the covers and slips beneath. He sits against the headboard and closes his eyes, breathing in her scent and letting the day wash over him.</p><p>The man waiting in her house, the kids who had followed him in an attempt to track down Helen… The half dozen others he had killed that day for taking the contract at all. None of it would be enough, he knew.</p><p>“What are you thinking about?” Her voice rolls over him and John revels in knowing that she is safe. And close by. He could reach out and touch her so easily…</p><p>John opens his eyes and glances over at her, a small smile on his lips brought forth by her very presence, “I thought we agreed not to talk about today.”</p><p>“You don’t need to tell me what happened to tell me how you’re feeling.” She argues, marking her place in the book and setting it upon her lap. Helen looks up at him expectantly.</p><p>He thinks about it for a moment and he almost feels as if he’s back in her office. Except he can’t deny that he is oh-so aware of her presence next to him.</p><p>“Overwhelmed,” he admits.</p><p>“With?”</p><p>
  <em> Guilt, fear, anger, frustration, isolation, loneliness, adoration, embarrassment, disgust, anxiety, worry, contempt, disappointment, longing, jealousy, regret, nerves, insecurity, confusion… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Love. </em>
</p><p>He settles on, “Guilt. Fear.”</p><p>Helen nods thoughtfully. “I’ll admit, I’m facing a dilemma. My response towards you as my friend is different than my response as a therapist.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“As your friend…” she reaches up towards his face and he nearly stops breathing… is she about to touch him? Except she keeps going and then his head snaps forward as she smacks the back of his head, “You have no reason to feel guilty, John.”</p><p>He rubs the back of his head although she hadn’t actually hit him hard enough to hurt him, “Thanks for that.”</p><p>“You’ve got to stop blaming yourself, John.”</p><p>“Sound advice.” But not going to happen, “What does my therapist say?”</p><p>Helen gives him a playful glare, but says, “Your therapist is curious about your previous experiences with guilt. Most emotions are considered to be innate—particularly the baser emotions, like happiness or anger or sadness or fear. But some emotions, like guilt, tend to be more conditioned.”</p><p>John blinks, trying to make sense of that new piece of information, “I’m not sure I understand.”</p><p>“Okay,” she replies, clearly thinking out her response, “When you were a child, you might not have been able to put a name to certain emotions, but you could probably distinguish the more primitive emotions. Even if you didn’t have a word for it, you could probably tell when you were angry. Right?”</p><p>He nods.</p><p>“Right. You felt anger as a natural response. But guilt is far more complex than that. Because it’s based on morality, on our personal and cultural values. I mean, to an extent, all emotions are but things like guilt and shame in particular, are things that we’re conditioned to feel.</p><p>“A privileged child might be taught that cheating is wrong. Then, they’re stuck on a math test and it’s just so easy to peak over to the kid next to them to see the answer. And, despite all the warnings they may have received, they cheat. Now, for you and me, cheating on a math test might seem really inconsequential. Big picture—does it really matter that a seven-year-old cheated? But that child might be wracked with guilt if they’d received messages that cheating is bad.</p><p>“We hear about Catholic guilt a lot. It’s conditioned by confession, by dwelling on sins. I haven’t been to church since I was a teenager.” Helen admits, “And I feel no guilt over that. I’m comfortable enough in my spirituality, but a Catholic who misses a week of church might feel burdened with a great deal of guilt. Because that’s what they’ve been taught to feel.</p><p> “And then, there’s you, John. When you first told me what you did, we talked a bit about societal expectations and cultural norms and how you diverge from those. You’re an outlier. And you told me that you never felt guilty over a kill. That you thought you were supposed to feel guilty, but you never actually did.”</p><p>John remembers the conversation. He remembers the night with a vivid clarity, when he had first confessed to her his sins. When he had laid himself bare before her, almost expecting betrayal, or at the very least condemnation. Instead, he’d been gifted with her kind eyes and gentle assurances.</p><p>Helen doesn’t give him too long to ruminate on the past before continuing with her psychoeducation, “We discussed a lot that night and we kind of jumped from subject to subject rather quickly, so we didn’t get a chance to talk about it. I considered bringing it up, later, but your emotions around your job tend to be the most stable and I didn’t want to fan the flames, so to speak.”</p><p>He nods in response.</p><p>“You feel no guilt over taking a life.” She synthesizes, “But you are wrecked by causing me a mild inconvenience.”</p><p>“<em> Mild inconvenience </em>?” He repeats, staring at her incredulously.</p><p>Helen smirks, “Thought you’d like that.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous.”</p><p>“Yeah, but you like that about me.”</p><p>He does. He really fucking does.</p><p>“I’m just reframing it as an impromptu vacation. A getaway into the wilderness of Vermont.” Her voice deepens, taking on a highbrow cadence as she quotes <em> Walden</em>, “’I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.’”</p><p>“You’re hilarious.” He replies dryly yet his words are touched by boundless affection.</p><p>She dazzles him with a smile, shifting ever so slightly in her seat so she can better look at him, “That I am. But I’m also <em>right </em>. You don’t feel bad for taking a life, something in which you are an active participant, but an unintentional consequence that targets me has you damn near wallowing.”</p><p>“I’m not wallowing!” John is quick to protest.</p><p>“You hit your teenage angst phase late then.”</p><p>He stares at her for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know you are the only person in the world I let talk to me like that, right?”</p><p>“Oh yeah. It’s why I take advantage of it. I’m more than willing to tell you things you don’t want to hear. Like when you’re being avoidant or when you need to cut the shit. And, occasionally, to walk with you while you make difficult connections.”</p><p>“So, again, I want you to think back on your life to your experiences of guilt. Before everything went to hell this week, when was the last time you truly felt guilty?”</p><p>Despite the prevalence of guilt given their circumstances, it was still a foreign feeling to John. Far too rare for him to fully understand, not that he tried. He tended to push it down deep within him or drown it in alcohol.</p><p>He could go decades without touching on it, without feeling that melancholy shame. He had gone decades without it, but he can still vividly remember his last encounter with the emotion.</p><p>“The night before we met.” He says quietly. “I don’t remember… did I tell you about that?”</p><p>“You told me that a mission went sideways, but not much else.”</p><p>John nods, gathering his thoughts, which were still jumbled from that night. “I almost never work cases with a partner. It adds too many variables to the picture. And when something requires two people, I tend to only work with Marcus or Sofia. I know them well enough to trust them to have my back; to stick to the mission.</p><p>“That night, I was asked to work with a man called the Undertaker. I vaguely knew him but we’d never really interacted. The Underworld has different levels, different circles...”</p><p>“I’ve read Dante’s Inferno.”</p><p>“You’re hilarious,” he says with only the tiniest hint of humor, “But you have to understand the complexities of the Underworld. At the top, there are people who border on being civilians. They don’t participate in the violence or the decadence, but they act as supports. Witnesses. Homeless people who watch for information to pass along or convicts a step below organized crime. People who could almost blend in with the rest of your world.”</p><p>Helen nods in understanding and John continues.</p><p>“And then there are the gang members. The drug pushers, the gun runners. Still low level, but actively pursuing a life outside the typical social construct. There are all sorts of middle management keeping them in line. The middlemen. And then, you have the executives. The people who are organizing all of this who don’t actually touch the violence but are so deeply ingrained that their entire identity is consumed by this world. The gang leaders and heads of crime families. Pimps. Or managers, like Winston. They play their own version of god within each of their organizations. That’s what DeLuca is trying to become.”</p><p>“Then you have contractors, either independent or organizationally. Spies for the Underworld’s version of corporate espionage. Hitmen, like me, hired for a singular purpose. It’s a job. It pays well. For a lot of us, that’s enough.”</p><p>“Unfortunately, the Underworld also has its collection of sadists and sick people who exist in our world only because they would be arrested or put down like a rabid dog anywhere else.” John shakes his head like he’s in disbelief of it all, “And maybe I’m not the one to talk considering the thousands of people I’ve killed but…” he trails off.</p><p>John takes a moment, a breath, before continuing, “The Undertaker was a sadist. And I knew that, going into the mission. I’d heard talk, rumors. I tried not to put too much stock into it but I guess I should have. We got separated during the mission. I took out the target and when I went to find him… he was in the middle of undressing and beating the shit out of the target’s wife.”</p><p>“What happened then?” Helen asks, her voices washing over him like the gentlest of waves.</p><p>“I snapped his neck.” John says, staring straight at the wall ahead, “Probably more mercy than he deserved but it put him out and down quickly. But I didn’t get there fast enough. And I shouldn’t have taken the mission to begin with. There were too many warning signs and I ignored them.”</p><p>“I know it’s hard, but I want you to think back to that moment.” It’s already in his mind, like he can almost feel himself walking down that hallway, opening that door, “What were you feeling?</p><p>“Anger, for the most part.”</p><p>“During stressful situations, the more primal emotions tend to take over.”</p><p>John nods, “Looking back, I don’t think I even noticed the guilt until after I had left. And then, it was overwhelming. I just kept thinking it was my fault for agreeing to work with him. It was my fault for having a partner on a case and not watching them close enough. And I remember thinking that I didn’t want to go back to the Continental and have to explain what happened.”</p><p>“And as I wandered aimlessly around Brooklyn, I decided to sit for a minute in a quiet café that I was certain would be devoid of anyone from my world. I figured I could sit in silence, avoid attention. Content to wallow in my misery.” He looks at the woman next to him, “And then you came in.”</p><p>And that was what he remembered the most.</p><p>Sitting still, in silence, watching the world move all around him. But never interacting, never touching the other lives that existed in the same space.</p><p>Before Helen came over like a fucking freight train.</p><p>“You handed me a coffee, introduced yourself, and started showing me pictures of dogs you had saved on your phone.”</p><p>Helen turns slightly pink but is quick to comment, “My biggest regret in losing my phone is that I’ll have to start my folder of <em> Good Dogs I Meet </em> over.”</p><p>“You think all dogs are good dogs.” John teases.</p><p>“Because they are!”</p><p>“Yeah.” John says with an affectionate chuckle, “They are.”</p><p>She glances down briefly before meeting his eyes, “Now that I know what you were doing there, I’m surprised you didn’t just leave when I started bugging you.”</p><p>“What? And missed the virtual tour of your neighborhood, dog by dog?”</p><p>Helen flips him off and he just laughs.</p><p>“Seriously,” she says, shaking her head, “Why didn’t you go or tell me to fuck off?”</p><p>It was times like this he wishes he could force himself to lie. To just shake his head, shrug his shoulders, and say <em> I don’t know </em>. Not that she’d fall for it, anyway. And she deserves the truth.</p><p>“You looked at me and talked to me like I was normal. Like I hadn’t just killed a handful of men. Like I wasn’t… bad. And I know what you’re going to say,” John says before she can intervene, “Good and bad are subjective terms that human beings have spent millennia trying to define and understand.”</p><p>“You know me well. But I also know that you always think the worst of yourself. And while you don’t feel guilty over what you do, you don’t feel good about it, either.”</p><p>“The reality of the situation,” Helen continues, “is that you grew up in a community that had no moral quandaries about killing. You were sent to a school as a child to learn how to kill. You were conditioned, in a way, to think of killing as normal. You probably didn’t receive negative messages about death until you were in Mexico.”</p><p>John breathes in sharply because, once again, she is <em>right</em>.</p><p>Mexico. He tries not to think too much about those days.</p><p>Helen is the only person alive who even knew what had happened that night.</p><p>John isn’t even sure how old he was when he ran away but he had been in Baja a few seasons. A local family had given him a bed in exchange for work, and John had never been afraid of work. He had enjoyed the days spent in the fields, under the hot sun. It beat running guns through the New York underground.</p><p>It had never been perfect. He felt envious of the other kids his own age who went home to their families when the sun set, while John had wandered the streets until he was tired enough to sleep.</p><p>But it was good. He had friends. People who kept an eye on him. He was free of the Underworld, free of the academy and of the Ruska Roma.</p><p>And then, it had gone to shit.</p><p>A group of bandits had been passing through town, demanding money in exchange for leaving them all unharmed. And the local law enforcement hadn’t given two shits and the people of his village were forced to give what little they had.</p><p>And he had been an angry teenager without any guidance. Impulsive, unfocused.</p><p>He had stolen the money right back, and then some.</p><p>But he hadn’t been careful. He got caught and the trouble followed him all the way be to El Suazel.</p><p>The bandits had lit the town ablaze in the middle of the night. Those who hadn’t died from the explosions or the fires were shot dead in the street.</p><p>And John had done what he always had done. He survived.</p><p>It took him twelve years, but he got revenge eventually. Too little, he thinks, too late.</p><p>“Fuck.” He swears.</p><p>“Take your time,” Helen tells him, already gazing at him with empathy he is certain he does not deserve.</p><p>It had been his fault…</p><p>He hadn’t been careful. He had led them straight to the village…</p><p>Just as he had lead DeLuca straight to her.</p><p>“Christ, Hels…” He bites out, shaking his head. “How do you fucking do that? All this time, and you still can get in my head.”</p><p>“All this time makes it easier. And besides,” she leans against him, bumping her shoulder into his, “We’re not as different as you like to think.”</p><p>“Yes, we are.”</p><p>Helen looks like she’s going to argue but sighs, shaking her head, “We gotta work on that pedestal you seem to have me on because, I can assure you, John, I do <em> not </em>belong there.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes at that and states, “You are the best person I know.”</p><p>“The bar’s not that high.” She reminds him, not unkindly, “But you also don’t know everything about me. I’ve fucked up, too. I’ve broken rules; ignored social contracts. I’ve knowingly hurt others. Hell, if the Catholics call it a sin—I’ve probably done it.” He doesn’t look convinced, but he never does when she suggests that, she too, is capable of fucking up.</p><p>“It’s different.”</p><p>“It is.” She admits, “We have different experiences; with very different circumstances.”</p><p>John seems lost. Trapped in his head, she thinks. She is prepared to break him out of it when she sees him swallow, “Ten families lived in that village. Nearly eighty people.”</p><p>“It was the first time you felt guilty.”</p><p>“I <em> was </em>guilty. I <em> am </em> guilty.”</p><p> “Unintentional consequences.” Helen murmurs softly, “It almost makes it worse, doesn’t it? Knowing that your intentions were good before watching everything go to hell.”</p><p>“It really does.”</p><p>Helen leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. She has changed roles, he thinks. No longer the assessor but the friend, offering comfort rather than explanations or connections.</p><p>“It’s the lack of control, I think. Speaking as your friend and not your therapist,” she clarifies, “There’s no backing to what I’m saying. But I think guilt becomes more intense when we’ve committed accidental atrocities. It’s harder to accept the things we didn’t mean to do.”</p><p>He looks down at her. Her hair is blocking her face, almost hiding her. Is that purposeful?</p><p>He’s curious. He’s <em> always </em> curious about her but he never really asks.</p><p>First, because she was his counselor and he knew enough to know that questions about her personal life would probably not be welcomed beyond a more socially appropriate <em> how was your week? </em></p><p>And then the lines started to blur, but John didn’t ask because he was afraid that he would go one step too far and she would send him away.</p><p>He’s not entirely sure why he hasn’t asked more, now that those lines had vanished. They were sharing a fucking bed, after all.</p><p>“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”</p><p>She hums in response.</p><p>“Is that avoidance?” He teases and Helen lightly smacks his arm as she sits up and looks back at him.</p><p>Her eyes are narrowed, ever so slightly, and she’s looking at him thoughtfully. She exhales, looking down, and her breath hitches ever so slightly, “You’ve always painted me in a positive light. And while I’ve considered shattering the good and pure image that you have of me, I’ve always been too selfish to do it.” Helen forces herself to look up, shaking her head ever so slightly, “But the truth is, I am utterly terrified of letting you down.”</p><p>There’s a weight behind her eyes and John feels a new wave of emotion flow through him. He is certain, completely so, that there is nothing she could have done or will ever do to make him think less of her. But he’s never been good at expressing such things.</p><p>He reaches out, touching her face. Her skin is soft and smooth and warm and she leans into it.</p><p>“Hels,” he says gently, “I know you’re human. I know you are capable of making mistakes and messing up. But that doesn’t change the fact you are still the best person I know.”</p><p>“You don’t know some of the shit I’ve done.” She argues.</p><p>“But I know you. It doesn’t matter to me what you’ve done. I’m still going to…” he cuts himself off before he can confess his love for her, “care for you, just as I always have. And Christ, Hels, you didn’t flinch when I told you there was a bounty on your head. But <em> this </em> has you afraid and I don’t understand why.”</p><p>Helen shakes her head gently, her teeth worrying her lip. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”</p><p>“There’s nothing you can say that will disappoint me,” He insists, “Hels, I told you <em> everything </em> . That night when we stayed in your office until nearly three am. I told you every horrible, disgusting thing that I have taken part in. And when I was finished, you still looked at me with the same kindness that you did that first day in the café, when you didn’t know the kind of man I was.” He feels like he’s begging as he asks, “Trust <em> me </em> to look at you the same.”</p><p>She laughs humorlessly, “What, do you want a laundry list of every shitty thing I’ve ever done?”</p><p>“No. Not unless you want to give me one.” He tucks her hair behind her ear so he can better see her face, “I want to know enough that, when I look you in the eyes and tell you that <em> nothing </em> has changed, that you believe me.”</p><p>Her eyes close and she takes a breath, leaning back from his touch as she nods, “Did you know that counseling is one of the top careers for narcissists?”</p><p>John raises a brow, both at the statement and at the rapid change in subject, “Really?”</p><p>Helen nods, “I had a professor who used to say that every counselor she ever met was either a narcissist or some poor soul trying to mend their own trauma.”</p><p><em> Ah </em>.</p><p>John breathes out at that, “And you’re not a narcissist.”</p><p>“I’m many things,” Helen agrees, “But, no, I’ve never been a narcissist.” She pauses and says, “Growing up, I lived next door to another girl who was my age. Louisa. And we were best friends, inseparable. We went to the same daycare, the same schools. And then we’d sit together on the bus home and take turns going to each other’s houses or playing out back. And when we got older, we’d complain about everything and talk about how things would be different once we grew up and went to college.</p><p>“When we were about fourteen, things started to change.” The small affectionate smile which had graced her face starts to dissipate, “We were still best friends, but Louisa became more withdrawn. She’d say she wanted to spend more time at my house but then would come over and would just sit in silence. I didn’t get why but I rolled with it.</p><p>“That summer, I was invited to go camping with her family. I’d gone with them a handful of times before. I adored her parents. I thought of her older brother as my older brother. Eric. He was a dick to us most of the time, but he always made a point to say hi to me in the hallway at school.”</p><p>And John focuses on his breathing because he thinks he knows where this story is leading.</p><p>“Louisa and her dad had gone to the store to get bait for fishing and her mom asked me to get firewood.  Eric followed me into the woods. I thought he was helping until he cornered me.”</p><p>John’s fingers curl into his palms, his nails biting at his skin as fury flows through him.</p><p>“He was handsy and I remember being utterly terrified. He was a lot bigger than I was and I tried but I couldn’t push him off. But Louisa came. Her mom had told her we were off getting firewood and she ran to find us. Told him their dad was looking for him and he left. And that was when it all came out. It had been going on for months, but she was too afraid to tell anybody. Afraid they wouldn’t listen and afraid that Eric would get into trouble.</p><p>“Despite it all, she was still trying to protect him.” Helen shakes her head, “She begged me to let it go. Said it would never happen again, to either of us, but she made me take a blood oath to never tell. And for three years, I kept quiet. She swore Eric stopped with her, I trusted her when she said he didn’t with her. But he didn't stop with me. I got... really good at avoiding him, at hiding from him. And he went off to college that fall, anyway. I really only had to worry on vacations."</p><p>
  <em>He's going to find him. He's going to track this bastard down and rip him limb from limb.</em>
</p><p>“It was Thanksgiving break our senior year. Eric was home for the holiday, which always scared the shit out of me. But I could just hide at my house, for the most part. I had to bring a textbook over for Louisa one night and I overheard him threatening her.</p><p>“I didn’t know what to do. But I was more afraid for her than I ever was for me. I couldn't tell. I didn’t think anybody would believe me and I knew Louisa wouldn’t have backed me up, not when she was still trying to protect him.” Her breath shakes and John resists every natural urge that he has to reach out to her, “I was seventeen. And impulsive. And scared if I didn’t do <em> something </em> it was going to keep happening.</p><p>“I found an old spray bottle and started filling it with cleaning chemicals I found under the sink. After dark, I snuck out of my window and went over, hiding under the basement stairs. I waited for him to go down to bed for hours. Finally, I heard the creak of the steps. Before I could be seen, I jumped out and started to spray. And it wasn’t until I heard the screaming, that I realized it wasn’t him. It was Louisa.”</p><p>Helen is shaking now, unable to make eye contact.</p><p>“She screamed and I… I ran out the basement door. Made it home. I think I was in shock. I just remember sitting on my bed all night, rocking back and forth until the sun came up. She was blinded for life. Chemical burns all over her face. Had to drop out of school. Never blamed me, though. The cops assumed it had to have been someone from Eric’s year, targeting him. Louisa assumed the same and I never told her otherwise.”</p><p>“Hels--”</p><p>“I’m not done.” She says sharply, “Her parents both worked full time, so Eric dropped out of college to take care of her. She couldn’t take it anymore—the blindness, the abuse. And what I tried to do to protect her only served to make her an easier target. And four months later, she killed herself. Overdosed on her pain meds.”</p><p>Helen had always been a beacon of empathy, but it went both ways. She could read him like a book, but she could also project what she was feeling. Pain, guilt, and regret rolled off of her in waves, so strongly that John felt as if he was choking on them.</p><p>She’s still looking down, tense, like a coiled spring. He can see her leg shaking as nervous energy builds up and he wishes he had the words that would ease her pain, her guilt. He wishes he could take it away from her so that she no longer had to suffer.</p><p>But he barely has the words to describe his own emotions, let alone anyone else’s.</p><p>Helen rises to her feet, “I have to go—”</p><p>John is just as fast, scrambling over the bed to cut her off before she can leave. “Hels,” He says, catching her hand, cutting in front of her so that he is blocking the door, “Hels, look at me.”</p><p>A moment passes and she looks up, vulnerability shining in her watery eyes. Her lips quiver as John captures her face in his hand, “Nothing has changed.” He says softly, wishing he could say more. “Okay? Nothing has changed.”</p><p>“How can you say that?”</p><p>“Because it’s the truth. You think I haven’t known that you are human all along?” John strokes her cheek with his thumb, “I know you make mistakes. I know that you are just as capable of fucking up as the rest of us. And based on your decision to put up with me, your common sense is clearly lacking,” she cracks a small smile at that, and John loves her.</p><p>He loves her so much that it consumes him entirely.</p><p>“But I still think you’re perfect.”</p><p>She is still out of reach, still too good for him. She always will be, and a thousand mistakes wouldn’t change that. But the divide between them felt a little smaller every day.</p><p>And as cruel as it seems, he appreciates that she can understand his feelings of El Suazel. To have good intentions to help another only to be the cause of misery.</p><p>Helen shakes her head and her voice cracks as she whispers, “You’re ridiculous.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “But you like that about me.”</p><p>“I really do.” </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. And marries the sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Huge thanks to @meetmeinthematinee for editing this for me &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When John wakes up, he doesn’t do a double take. He isn’t startled by the weight in his arms or the warm body that is snuggled into his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s getting used to this, to waking up next to Helen. It’s a stunning realization that momentarily rocks him to his core. He feels a brief sickness that reminds him that this will not be forever. That he will not always get to hold her like this, in his arms. More than that, it’s contingent on the fact her life is in danger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he pushes those thoughts down. He’s tired of them. Tired of making himself sick with the knowledge that this is only temporary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he breathes in her soft scent and buries his face against the top of her head, which is gently tucked against his neck. He idly strokes her hair, committing the sensation to memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen sighs, softly in her sleep, nuzzling against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had talked late into the night, far longer than either had intended. About their guilt, their pain. The stupid shit they did as kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hated that she had suffered for so long, alone. Her quiet testament </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve never told anyone about this before. Ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> had shaken him. The trust she had bestowed upon him moves John deeply. He was grateful for her trust, but also for the fact he now understands her. A new light shines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can make sense of her decision to listen to him talk of his crimes even against her mandate. In a way she was never able to disclose her own. Her outstanding empathy for him and his experiences, which he suspected had always been there, was strengthened by her understanding of what it was like to be ruled by guilt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was scared he might think less of her, she had told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How wrong she was. He loved her for her flaws all the more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when they finally crawled under the covers to sleep, they laid facing one another. Her hand rested on his. And they kept talking and, this time, he asked her the questions he had longed to ask for so long. About moving to New York for school and never leaving. About interning in a psych ward and how she worked counseling families for years before she moved to private practice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she starts to drift off, John tells her to go to bed, but she insists on finishing her story. At least, she tries to, falling asleep mid-thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had tugged the blankets up, tucking her in before John, too, let himself drift asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lifts his arm so he can see his watch and Helen humphs. It’s already eight. He really can’t afford to be wasting time with the countdown on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The countdown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Wednesday now. He has until Friday evening to get the bounty removed from her head. And while he wants nothing more than to hold her like this forever, he forces himself to disentangle his limbs from hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand grips itself in his shirt, “Don’t you dare.” She mutters, further leaning into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John laughs quietly, “It’s already eight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m on vacation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.” He can’t resist the opportunity and kisses her head. He places his hand atop hers and loosens her grip, “Come on. I’ll get you coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grumbles softly, blinking awake as John slips out of bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs his suit pants from where they were draped over his suitcase and finds the papers from DeLuca. He scans it, briefly, before pocketing them in his pajama pants. He hadn’t looked at them the night before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, after he left The Gilded Rose, he was obsessed with getting back to Helen. Because after a day tracking down those who meant to do her harm he needed to see, with his own eyes, that she was safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slips out of the room, allowing her privacy, as he wanders down the hall. Marcus, it seems, had already cleaned his space. The foldaway bed had been put away, the coffee table moved back to its place. Marcus has resumed his seat in his favored armchair and was watching the news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Marcus says, muting the show and rising to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning.” John replies, grabbing two mugs out of the cupboard and setting them next to the coffee pot. He tosses out yesterday’s filter and grounds before setting about making a fresh pot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleep well? Any late-night declarations of love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were up late.” Marcus takes a frying pan down and sets it on the stove, “I went to the bathroom at two and your light was still on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just chatting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus hums as he walks over to the fridge, “About your undying love for each other?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John closes the lid over the coffeemaker, shooting his friend a glare. “Get me the damn milk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus sighs, dramatically, “Goody. Can’t wait to spend another day with you two pining morons.” He hands John the milk as he deepens his voice, “’I love her, but I don’t deserve her,’” before making it higher, “I love him, but it’s complicated.’ Argh!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone ever tell you you’re super annoying?” John asks, pouring a splash of milk at the bottom of Helen’s empty mug as he waits for the coffee to brew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guarantee, nothing I do is possibly more annoying than watching the two of you. Scrambled eggs alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect.” John says and he hears a closing door and soft footsteps down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spares a glance over his shoulder as coffee begins to slowly drip into the carafe. She’s changed, into her own clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt advertising a band he isn’t familiar with. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Samurai</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, sweetheart.” Marcus says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning.” Comes her soft reply. She’s brushed her hair back into a ponytail, he notes as she shuffles across the floor towards him. The last remnants of sleep are in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coffee’s almost ready.” He tells her without being asked and Helen just nods and leans against him. Her arms, drawn in towards her chest rest against his back and she nestles her face there as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of affection sweeps through John at the tender contact. One which can’t even be diminished by Marcus, off to the side, drawing his index fingers out in the shape of a wide heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“’mkay.” She yawns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coffee finishes dripping, and John pours out their two cups, handing Helen the lighter of the two. She blows to cool it, taking a sip as she walks to the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eggs and toast okay, Helen?” Marcus asks as she sits down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” She takes another sip and John finds himself with a smile upon his face. He knows how she is early in the morning and that each sip of coffee will awaken her a little more until she is back to her bubbly self.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John helps Marcus around the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He’s not looking forward to going back to the city but it’s inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s also not looking forward to the discussion with Helen. She wasn’t going to be happy; he knew that already and was mentally preparing himself for Helen to become upset.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And after last night…the last thing he wanted to do was for her to feel guilty or responsible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a clusterfuck of monumental proportions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus starts plating and John takes the dishes over to the table, setting one in front of Helen before taking the seat next to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” She says softly and Marcus takes a seat on her other side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn near docile without your coffee, aren’t you?” he teases and Helen smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m better than I used to be. In grad school, I averaged eight shots of espresso a day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a terrifying thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She inclines her head and takes another long sip as Marcus turns his attention to John.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I allowed to inquire about yesterday yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Helen turns to John, looking at him expectantly. He swallows his bite and sighs, “Yeah. It, uh, went about as well as we expected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus exhales but nods in understanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meaning?” Helen pushes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can’t quite meet her eyes, “DeLuca wants a series of hits done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do I get the idea that it isn’t that simple?” John doesn’t reply as he tries to think of how he can possibly explain the circumstances without upsetting her. In his hesitation, Helen turns to Marcus, “What isn’t he saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One of the hits DeLuca wants is against a prominent member of the High Table. There are consequences for killing someone on the High Table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Helen mutters, “Can anybody give me a straight answer here? What are the fucking consequences?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks between them, expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It depends,” Marcus says, holding up a hand before she can snap at that response like she is clearly poised to do, “Honestly, it does. But nine times out of ten, if you go up against the High Table, you’re looking at death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, “So, we’re not doing that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John and Marcus exchange a look which she catches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing that.” She repeats, looking directly at John this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hels, there aren’t a lot of options and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t an option. It’s suicide.” He opens his mouth to reply and she cuts him off again, “Jesus fuck, do I need to slap some sense into you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My vote is for yes.” Marcus adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks over at him shaking her head, “You knew this was a possibility. I asked you how bad things were and you told me he might get in </span>
  <em>
    <span>a bit of trouble.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You’ll be lucky if I don’t slap you, too.” Helen turns back to John, “Whatever stupid stunt you’re thinking of, get it out of your head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, “There might not be another way out of this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there </span>
  <em>
    <span>might </span>
  </em>
  <span>be!” Helen looks between them, “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, they exchange a look. Marcus makes a doubtful face, “It’s not impossible…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then we’ll find it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can try.” Marcus looks across to John, “We’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>going </span>
  </em>
  <span>to try. What exactly did DeLuca say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes over their conversation in his head, “He’s thought this all through. He knows I can’t touch him while the hit is active.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he holds the hit?” Helen asks, like she’s trying to piece it all together. John is reminded, again, just how far removed she is from all of this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>barely understands the rules and politics of the Underworld and he’d grown up in it. Spent decades living under the table, serving the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once a contract has been released,” he explains, “it’s active. Only two entities can remove it: the person who initially ordered the hit or the High Table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the High Table isn’t going to care about an interpersonal conflict that doesn’t directly affect them.” Marcus adds, “Which means DeLuca is the only one with the power to remove the bounty on your head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And DeLuca knows this, so he’s standing firm with his original request: for me to take out Lorenzo D’Antonio, an incumbent member of the High Table and his heirs.” John finishes. “And there’s a deadline.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus grimaces at that new tidbit, “When?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friday night. Lorenzo and Gianna are set to leave New York at 6pm. If all three aren’t dead by then, the hit stands.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen blinks, like she’s trying to understand it all, “You said the High Table isn’t going to care unless it affects them directly. But wouldn’t killing one of their members directly affect them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her logic was sound but her understanding of the Underworld was lacking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Complicated.” Helen murmurs, “Why am I not surprised?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, knowing how frustrating it was to try to get a grip on Underworld politics. “It’s confusing, to say the least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And by that, John means he still can’t wrap his head around half of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John inclines his head, knowing it’s the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus gestures vaguely, “The High Table is, at best, unpredictable. And while they have very strict rules that enforce the safety of all it’s members, it’s more for their own individual benefit than because they care about each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of like mutually assured destruction—they can’t target one another without risking their own life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly! So because they can’t target one another, they’re secretly thrilled when a rogue assassin or insurgent goes after an incumbent member.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus. And I thought U.S. politics were rough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congress has nothing on the High Table, sweetheart.” Marcus assures her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen sets her elbow on the table and rests her head on her hand, “Okay, so say, for arguments sake, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be brought to the High Table. DeLuca could still get in trouble for trying to target somebody on the High Table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” John says, “But it’s not a guarantee that they would remove your bounty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it’s a possibility?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not one I’m willing to take the risk for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens her mouth to argue but Marcus shakes his head, “I’m with John on this one, Helen. Half the Table wouldn’t care, the other half would refuse to remove the bounty just because they’re that sadistic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs, “So High Table is out. DeLuca is out. What does that leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John considers reminding her that DeLuca is not yet out of the question but decides against it, not feeling up to being slapped just yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing conventional. We’re going to have to get creative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would happen if we faked my death? Could the bounty be cleared that way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head and, with it, tries to shake the image that arises with it. “Another complicated bylaw. There has to be proof that—” he can’t bring himself to say you, instead settling on, “the intended target is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Corpus delicti.” Marcus nods, “Latin for body of the crime. In the normal legal system, it just means that there has to be proof that a crime was committed. In the Underworld, it means that the death has to be verified. And it can only be verified by officials serving under the High Table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And no one can lie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not without risking punishment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She exhales, shaking her head, “Unbelievable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Underworld is big on rules. They’re the only things that separate us from the animals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not even going to touch </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Helen says, rolling her eyes before she looks back to John, “What about the mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca’s mom.” She says as if it’s obvious, “I told you to look into her. Did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pauses. No, he hadn’t. She had told him to, but it had slipped his mind amidst everything else. The anger and fear had pushed him to immediate action—killing others to protect her became his primary focus rather than dealing with the political aspect.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, “Well, start there. He didn’t last eight minutes in my presence before he had to have me sedated—that doesn’t scream strong, intelligent leader.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus chokes on his bite off egg. He pounds his chest, coughing before he manages to choke out, “I’m sorry, what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helen told DeLuca he had mommy issues.” John clarifies with a small, defeated sigh, “So he had her sedated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> have mommy issues.” She looks back to Marcus, “He just didn’t like being called out in front of his men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was when you were held hostage?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, “He came down to try to intimidate me. It didn’t really work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you weren’t at all scared?” Marcus asks doubtfully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A little when I first woke up.” She admits, “But once I figured out that I had bigger balls that DeLuca—” John drops his head into his hand, sighing again. “I wasn’t that worried. And I knew John would be along eventually, once he finished with his initial rage spike.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rage spike?” John repeats, glancing up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve talked about how the baser, more primal emotions take over during times of distress. Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t break anything after finding out I was taken?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. He thinks back to the chair at the Continental that he had thrown across the room, smashing the chair and putting a hole in the wall. An antique, Winston had said. Followed by two days of John using every ounce of self-control to not break anything else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No comment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks victoriously and Marcus just shakes his head, “What’d you break?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No comment.” He repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other assassin just grins, shaking his head as he looks back to Helen. “We should take you on tour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen shrugs, “Anybody who studies behavior can piece these kinds of things together. And the better you know somebody, the easier it becomes to predict their actions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t know DeLuca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but I’ve known men </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>DeLuca. He wears his narcissism on the sleeve of his perfectly tailored suit. Factor in his posture and his diction to get a glimpse at his upbringing. Buffed nails tell me that he’s all talk. The reaction of his men tells me that he’s a neophyte. His reaction to being called out tells me he’s got no backbone. Pick up the rest from body language. Add it all together, you’ve got a narcissist with insecure attachment and an Oedipus complex, in way over his head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s met with silence. Marcus shoots a look across the table at John before looking back to Helen. “Eight minutes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give or take.” At his incredulity, Helen sits back, folding her arms, “Just because I don’t know eleven ways to kill someone with my pinky doesn’t mean I’m useless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly not,” Marcus agrees, “At this point, I’m tempted to just send you straight to DeLuca and break him down until he drops the contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not happening.” John says quickly and Marcus rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll mark that down for plan B.” Helen says, shooting Marcus a wink, “But seriously, what about DeLuca's mom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be used as leverage.” The other assassin says with a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, “I’m pretty sure she’s in Rome. Given the deadline, we’d have to find someone else to bring her in and there’s no one in Italy I trust to take her without raising alarms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not Italy, no. But we know someone in the same time zone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John blinks, “Huh. That could actually work. It’s what, three hours by plane from Casablanca to Rome?” He pauses, then shakes his head, “I don’t know. If DeLuca gets wind of things, it could escalate matters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Extraction is Sofia’s specialty.” Marcus insists, “She would be in, out, and on a flight with mommy DeLuca before anyone’s the wiser. If we play the time zones just right, Sofia could get her at bedtime. Then it would be hours before anyone even knew she was gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too many unknown variables.” John says, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can come back to it.” Helen says, reaching over and setting a hand on top of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John tries to think over the loud hum that comes with physical contact from her. After a moment, she lets go, relaxing back into her chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks pensive before she asks, “What does the rule state for deaths that aren’t contracted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure I understand.” John says, blinking in confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The three people you’ve been asked to kill—it’s technically not a contract. It’s under the table, so to speak. Would their deaths have to be verified the same way that mine would be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Marcus sits back in his chair, “When I’ve taken freelance hits, I’m usually able to just show a picture or give a finger to the patron. DeLuca ask for any specific proof?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, “No, he didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then could we reach out to the family? Explain to them what’s going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John considers it, inclining his head as Marcus does the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo would be reluctant to do anything that might make him look weak. Even if it’s fake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus hums, “I’m sure he’d rather fake his death than see </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lo Spectro</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lo Spectro?” Helen repeats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the Italians call John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen snorts, “What? </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Boogeyman</span>
  </em>
  <span> not badass enough for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, it occurs to John that Helen might be the only person in the world to talk to him like that. Even Marcus, even Sofia, who both lived to give him a hard time wouldn’t ride him like Helen did. It’s comforting, in a way. To know that there is still someone out there who talks to him like he’s normal. Like he’s human rather than a monster or a ghost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t choose it.” He says and Helen just shakes her head. Looking at Marcus, John adds, “Santino would need to be coerced, but he’d do it just for the entertainment factor.  Gianna will do what her father tells her. It would come down to Lorenzo and presenting it to him… I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John had worked for Lorenzo before. They had a decent work relationship, but Lorenzo didn’t do favors for the hell of it. He also didn’t respond well to threats. Even if John presented it as quid pro quo, there was an overarching threat that if Lorenzo didn’t comply, John would kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And at the end of the day, John didn’t trust anybody with a seat at the High Table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all had disposed of too many people, broken too many promises to have earned trust. And alliances in the Underworld were fickle at best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a miracle John had two people that he fully trusted in such a place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your concern?” Marcus asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo. I’m not sure how to present it in a way that doesn’t come off as a threat. Fuckin’ hate politics.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure would be helpful if you could lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen snorts as John shoots Marcus a glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Marcus says, “I tend to avoid Santino whenever possible. Think he could convince his dad to do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, “There’s a reason Santino chooses to live in New York. Lorenzo favors Gianna and they all know it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can offer some free family therapy if they help.” Helen says, bouncing her brows. Marcus laughs aloud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please do sit down Santino and tell him all about his daddy issues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do not.” John says. He doesn’t want to be amused while trying to figure out a way to save her life, but she makes comments like that and its hard to fight the smile. Sighing, he nods, “I could try with Santino. Maybe he’ll have a way to get his father to agree. The rest, we can play by ear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By which he means if Santino doesn’t agree, he’ll kill him. And the rest of the D’Antonio family, if that’s what it takes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Marcus gauges his meaning by the defeated look he sends and the slight shake of his head. Helen, thankfully, doesn’t appear to have caught on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to fight with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d still reach out to Sofia.” Marcus says, “I know you’ve got concerns about taking DeLuca’s mother but, at the very least, she’d be good insurance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, half-heartedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t like DeLuca could retaliate further. He’d already gone after the one person in John’s life that he couldn’t live without.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll give her a call once I reach the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A plan, John thinks. Better than nothing but nowhere as concrete as he would like it to be. There’s so much that could go wrong. Outside variables. People to depend on… Nervous energy ticks through him as he considers just how much could go wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not suicidal. If at all possible, he wants to get out of this alive. But not at the risk of Helen’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s certain he could fulfill DeLuca’s request. He could eliminate all three D’Antonio’s in a matter of hours. Of course, the High Table would descend upon him and then it would only be a matter of time until he was defeated by their guard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alternative, of course, is a shot in the dark. All three D’Antonio’s would have to go along with the plan. If even one faltered, it would be Helen who paid the price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time was against them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this really the best they could do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should get ready.” He says and takes his plate to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s grateful he showered the night before and heads straight to bedroom. He finds a clean suit, albeit rumpled, and starts to change.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is buttoning his shirt when there is a knock at the door. “Come in.” He says as he turns up his collar and grabs the tie from the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens and Helen steps in, arms folded across her chest. She gives him a once over and exhales, “When are you leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five minutes.” He drapes the tie around his neck, tugging at one end to adjust the length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen steps closer, until she is directly in front of him. She takes the ends of the tie from his hands and folds the length until it is in a Windsor knot. He can barely breathe as he watches her practiced hand. “I never understood why you wear a tie.” She says, tugging the knot upward until it reaches his throat. “Seems counterintuitive for an assassin to give anyone an easy method of strangulation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She folds his collar back down over the tie, her arms vaguely wrapped around him while she does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t seem fair not to give the enemy a single chance.” He says, aware of the gruffness in his voice as her hands slide around his shoulders before she finally, heart-wrenchingly, steps back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cocky.” She comments and there is a faint flush on her cheeks that would have staggered him were he able to move at all. “I don’t like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The tie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She meets his eyes, “You giving anyone a chance to keep you from coming home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what to say to that. The words echoing around his head, his heart are unfitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, I love you, I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Helen licks her lips, “John, promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hels…” He shakes his head softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Promise me.” She says again, her voice breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t lie and she knows it. Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t make a promise like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flash with something he doesn’t recognize but it wounds him all the same. She shakes her head, looking distraught and it breaks him to know that he is causing her pain. He’s scaring her with his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness. To apologize again and again for this whole mess. To promise her that everything is going to be okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she won’t forgive him, because she never blamed him in the first place. Not like she should have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I’m going to do whatever it takes to protect you.” He swears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shakes her head and her tone changes, “No.” Helen says and there is anger dripping from her words as she continues, “Because that’s what scares me. That you’re going into this with such low expectations that you’re going to set yourself up for failure.” The rage seems to be building, her volume increasing, “You’re going to self-sabotage until you feel that the only way out is to comply with DeLuca and fuck!” She shouts, “DeLuca doesn’t get to win! He doesn’t!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not after all this! He doesn’t get to walk away while </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> suffer.” Her voice cracks, “That’s not how this ends. You don’t,” her lips quiver as she shakes her head, “You don’t get to go all noble and leave me here to pick up the pieces.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen closes her mouth to withhold crying and John closes the distance, unable to stop himself. He wraps his arms around her, holding her to him tightly. She tries to swallow back her cries and it breaks him all the more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been waiting for this, he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After everything: being taken hostage by DeLuca, kept locked in a basement for days, being freed for a matter of hours before the bounty on her was released. Days in hiding, unable to go to work or even use her fucking phone… He’d waited for a breakdown that never came and now…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her life has been on the line for nearly a week and she hadn’t wavered. But the idea that it was going to be his life, instead…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what to do with this. He doesn’t know how to tell her it’s going to be okay when it might not. And he doesn’t know if this can even be fixed anymore or if they’re too far down their path to change course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t—” John breathes, “I can’t promise you anything right now. I don’t know how this is going to end. If it comes down to your life or mine, you know I won’t hesitate.” He feels her tensing in his arms and he lovingly strokes her back. He can feel her already regulating her breathing, bringing herself back down. “But I can promise you that I will try. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get Lorenzo to cooperate. To make this work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you have to know that,” John swallows, “Hels, you have to understand that even if we both survive this, it won’t be the end. DeLuca is not the only enemy who would target you if they thought—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care.” She looks up at him, watery eyes shining fiercely, “Okay? We’ll figure the rest out when we get to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t deserve her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just come home to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really doesn’t fucking deserve her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John reaches up to his throat, to the knot she had just tied and undoes it. With a sharp tug, he pulls the strip of fabric loose from his collar. He holds her eyes with his as he wraps the length around his hand until it is in a bundle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hands it to her, in a silent offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not a promise, but the closest thing he can give.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I won’t give anyone the chance to stop me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen accepts it, holding it to her chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be careful out there?” She asks, just as she did every Friday before they parted ways. Her voice is still heavy with emotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “I’ll come home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. With the war of the fire, my heart moves to its feet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to @meetmeinthematinee for reviewing and editing this for me &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The moment John reaches the city line, he turns on his phone. Yet again, he is met with a cacophony of vibrations as his phone loads with the unread messages that have accumulated over the past twelve or so hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waits until the barrage has ended before hitting the speed dial option that will bring him directly to the Continental. He orders a day room to set up shop, as well as a request for the technician to start researching DeLuca’s mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s transferred to Winston long enough to find out the name of Mateo’s mother. Winston barely gets a sentence out before John has said a goodbye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he is done, he dials Sofia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s already evening in Morocco and he can hear loud music in the background when she answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky I’m picking up considering you don’t answer any of your texts.” She says loudly, over the pulsing rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his lips twitch at the annoyance in her tone. “Been busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’ve heard.” The background noise gets quieter and he hears the sound of a door closing. “Rumor has it, you’re killing anybody even considering taking the Kingston contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good. While he doesn’t have the time to actually go ahead and kill every person seeking out Helen, he wants anybody considering her contract to think twice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hearing many rumors in Casablanca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you went </span>
  <em>
    <span>global</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John. Everybody everywhere is talking about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs at that and shakes his head, “Is there really nothing more interesting happening anywhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll break it down for you because I know you’ve had a lot of head injuries: everybody looks at you like a monk. You don’t date. You don’t fuck around. Everybody just kind of assumed you were celibate. I've even heard rumors that you made a deal with the devil to be powerful at the cost of giving up sex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, a contract goes wide. Some woman no one’s ever heard of. Never set foot in the Underworld yet seems to have a connection to John Wick. Everybody waits for a response. Only you disappear off the map for twenty-four hours. And nobody can actually find Helen Kingston.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, you resurface and start killing anyone who’s even looked at the Kingston contract. So, no, John. There really isn’t anything more interesting happening anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John lets out a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, he realizes, is quickly becoming his newest fear. That even if, somehow, he can get them both out alive, he’s going to have to face the rest of the Underworld.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d warned Helen before he left that he still had enemies. Ones far worse than DeLuca. The Syndicate heir was ambitious, but DeLuca truly didn’t care whether Helen lived or died. Others would. Others would make it their mission to make her suffer just to see how John would react.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was already trapped in ways she couldn’t possibly understand and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I take it you’re not calling to find out what the rumor mill is pelting in Casablanca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not.” John says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the pedestrians to cross in front of him. “I need a favor. There’s a bottle of Romanee-Conti ’72 in it for you. Plus expenses.” He’s more than willing to give her a marker if that’s what this takes, but he has a feeling that the rare vintage plus the intrigue of it all will be enough to capture her attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Color me intrigued. What’s the job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The man who’s hired the hit on Helen is Mateo DeLuca of Syndicate. I have reason to believe his mother, Isabella DeLuca, is the one who is actually calling the shots. Only problem, she’s in Rome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia hums, “Is she well-guarded?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” John answers honestly, “But I need her in New York yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An exchange. His mother for your girl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John drives on, inclining his head at the question, “I’m certain it won’t be that simple. But yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia hums and, again, he can hear her moving. The background noise increases slightly, “I can be to Rome in five hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect. If you can get her when she’s going to bed—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one will be the wiser until morning. This isn’t my first extraction, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods to himself because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course it isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t a micromanager. He never has been, but the stakes have never been quite like this before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You care if she’s bruised?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John considers it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He typically liked to keep things as clean as possible. He didn’t do extractions or espionage or anything else that called for more tact and forethought than a bullet to the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Isabella DeLuca was the force behind Mateo. Arguably, the force behind Helen’s abduction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not in the slightest.” He says finally, “Although I don’t expect she’ll put up much of a fight. She’s a bureaucrat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia groans, “I prefer it when they fight. Bureaucrats just whine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it. I’ve spent more time dealing with politics the past few days than I have in my entire life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never thought I’d see the day where John Wick had to talk nice to people. Then again, never thought you were going to get your v-card punched, either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his eyes at Sofia’s ongoing joke. There wasn’t much else she could get on him but his decision to be largely celibate fascinated his friend. Truthfully, John didn’t think too much about sex or carnal pleasures. He didn’t prioritize fleeting experiences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, the assassin’s voice softens, “How is she? Your girl. Does she understand what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods before remembering that Sofia can’t see him. “Yeah, she gets it. And she’s…” unbelievable. Ridiculous. Brave and clever and tougher than he ever gave her credit for, “In the past week, she’s been kidnapped, held hostage, and forced to go into hiding because half of New York is out to kill her. And despite all that, her biggest concern is that something could happen to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It still boggles his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have you been together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t entirely sure how to answer that and there’s far too much to explain over the phone. He decides on, “It’s complicated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it always?” She asks and John is glad that she isn’t going to chastise him for not knowing better. “Hang on.” He hears her switch languages to Arabic. While John isn’t fluent in that particular language, he knows enough to hear the word ‘airplane’. After a minute of back and forth, she is back on the phone, “I’m headed to the airport now. The concierge is finding a pilot as we speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect.” John says with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where am I taking her once I have her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks, quickly. There were too many eyes in New York for him to chance it getting back to DeLuca. Likewise, he was certain his house was being watched. Even though it technically wasn’t under his name, enough people knew about his residence in Jersey for it to get around. And there was no way in hell he was bringing Isabella anywhere near Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a private airstrip just outside of Newark with an adjacent motel. Keep her there. If I don’t talk to you before then, I’ll plan on meeting you there tomorrow, at noon. I’ll probably be offline when you land.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll get her there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Sof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hangs up and concentrates on the road ahead, even as his thoughts spin. He hates having to depend on anybody. That said, he does trust Sofia to get the job done. To take care of it and troubleshoot any unforeseen problems on her own. That knowledge helps with the distaste he feels for needing help. It was easier to accept the help, too, knowing it would benefit Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John makes it to the Continental and leaves his car with the valet. Walking into the lobby, he spots Verdugo sitting in an armchair by the fire, reading the newspaper. He imagines the assassin is likely still the number one contender targeting Helen, considering John hadn’t been able to touch him the day before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his hand already itching for his gun but he knows the rule.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He recites the rule, to himself, again and again as he passes by.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business conducted on Continental grounds.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t falter on that, not here. The moment Verdugo sets foot outside the hotel, he’s fair game. But not here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charon already has a key card placed on the counter when John reaches the counter. John places a coin down and they make a quick exchange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mister Dexter sent you a fax and the Technician has compiled the information you asked for. I’ve taken the liberty of sending it all to your room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” John says, thinking back over the past few days. For everything that the Continental staff had helped him with. “For everything, this week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” The Concierge replies with ease. John takes his key and starts to walk off when Charon calls to him, “And Mister Wick?” He waits until John turns, “I wish you the best of luck with your… task.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods his thanks and proceeds down the hall and up the stairs. The day room was almost identical to the one he had stayed in while waiting for news of Helen just days ago. Two folders layfolders lay on the table when John walks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first is much smaller. John flips it open and finds only two sheets of paper, reporting the updated odds. In large capital letters, it advertises </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kingston Contract Odds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John forces himself to swallow as he reads through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo remains the top contender, but the rest of the list is very different than the one he had seen yesterday morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks, was it really only yesterday?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, reviewing the changes. While he had eliminated a great deal of the assassins targeting Helen, even more had dropped out of their own accord, it would seem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But more would always come, as evidenced by the papers in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More names he didn’t recognize. Junior assassins and street kids looking to make a name for themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d try to make time to eliminate more. Keep reminding people </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>who they were messing with by going after a woman they knew to be his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes out his cell phone, again, ignoring the dozens of text messages that would be left unread until he had the time to deal with them. He finds Santino and drafts a new message.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>J: Need to talk. Today.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He reads it over after and sends. Before he can even set it down, it vibrates in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>S: Intriguing. You know where I live.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>John turns off the screen, setting the device to the side as he opens the second folder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pictures of Isabella DeLuca on the arm of her late husband at scores of different events over the years. A birth announcement of their son. A copy of a marriage certificate. A degree from Sapienza University of Rome in business sciences and another in political science. A transcript, providing proof of excellent marks and scores.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was bright, it seems, adding to Helen’s theory that Isabella was the true brain behind Syndicate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues going back into her history, but he doesn’t make the connection until he sees her birth certificate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isabella Carlotta Giovinco.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daughter of Stefano Giovinco and Valentina D’Antonio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whips out his phone and dials Winston speedily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello again, Jonathan. Have you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valentina D’Antonio.” John says quickly, “What’s her relationship to Lorenzo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valentina?” Winston repeats, “She was his older sister. The eldest child of Claudia and Enzo D’Antonio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that would make Isabella DeLuca his niece?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John closes his eyes, “And you didn’t think that was pertinent information to share when DeLuca asked me to kill the D’Antonio’s?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killing family is not an unusual practice, Jonathan. But, honestly, it slipped my mind. When Isabella was never, herself, a D’Antonio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But her mother was.” He shakes his head, “And in those days, everything was patrilineal. Heir’s weren’t chosen based on age or conviction; they automatically went to the oldest male.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which, in Valentina’s case was her brother, Lorenzo. She married one of her father’s lieutenants, if I remember correctly. They had several children, one of which being Isabella. It was quite the scandalous thing when Isabella married Dante. She had to renounce the Camorra at her own wedding to be accepted into Syndicate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A lesser gang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But one that quickly rose to prominence. It’s second only behind the Camorra in Italy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pinches the bridge of his nose. He fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates</span>
  </em>
  <span> this bullshit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a knock on the door and a beeping as the door unlocks. Winston enters and John lowers his phone, shutting it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, before Isabella, Syndicate was just another Italian crime family trying to be great.” John assesses, “Her family probably thought she was crazy for leaving the safety of the Camorra, but there was no advancement there. In the Camorra, she was just the daughter of a soldier and a has-been princess. But in Syndicate, she was a queen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think Isabella was the driving force behind Syndicate’s rise?” Winston synthesizes, looking unsure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “I do. Helen told me that DeLuca wasn’t smart enough to be doing this on his own and I didn’t listen. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He exhales, “I almost missed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d kick himself if he could. If he had just listened to her from the beginning… no. He can’t focus on should have’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any doubt that Lorenzo D’Antonio will turn down his request fades from his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it’s personal now. For them, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been personal for John since they started stalking the woman he loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unbelievable.” He mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it Mateo demanded the same last night as when he first took your beloved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods again, “Yes. And I’ve spent the last few days trying to figure out how I can get us both out of this alive. I can’t believe I almost missed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John exhales and it feels like a weight is lifted from his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s far from over but he can feel everything start to come together. There’s a light at the end of a tunnel that once seemed endless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes that Helen weren’t hours away so he could take her into his arms and hug her as the relief courses through him, overwhelming the guilt that he had missed something so crucial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s unsurprising that you missed it.” Winston says, “You’ve never had a political mind. You prefer the simplicity of being told where to point and shoot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>True enough, John thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s something else you should know.” Winston adds, his voice softening in a way that tells John that whatever comes next won’t be good. He nods and Winston says, “There’s a missing person’s out for Helen Kingston. I’m not sure if it was someone in the Underworld trying to draw her out of hiding or if it was someone from her work, but the police were at her house this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, “Do you know if Charlie was able to clean the scene before the police got there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston nods, “Yes. I have someone watching the investigation. The police are under the assumption that she ran away since both her cell phones and her laptop are nowhere to be found but her family is pushing, saying Helen wouldn’t just disappear without telling them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” John sighs, “Thank you for letting me know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to meet with Santino.” John says, closing the folder and handing it to Winston, “Could you pass these along to the Technician? I need them scanned and emailed to Sofia Al-Azwar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston accepts the folder, inclining his head, “I’d ask what you were planning, Jonathan, except I feel it’s better that I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably right.” John agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That said, I will be watching with complete and utter fascination.” The Manager continues, “Good luck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, pocketing the key in case he needs to come back, and leaving the rest behind. Without a goodbye, he hurries back down the hall. He descends the stairs only to meet Verdugo walking up. The other assassin gives him a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a hard man to find, John Wick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John stops and reminds himself again, of the mandate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While John was more than willing to argue that this isn’t business, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he was certain that argument wouldn’t fly with Winston or the High Table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I?” He asks, instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very. But every now and then, you pop up. Seemingly out of nowhere. If only Helen Kingston was privy to doing the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be in your best interest,” John manages to bite out, “To forget her name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it is such a pretty name. Fitting, really. There was a war over her namesake as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One where thousands died,” John agrees, aware that they’ve caught the attention of several onlookers just off the lobby, “Yet another reason it would be wise of you to drop the contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo inclines his head, “You can’t keep her hidden forever. You do know that, don’t you? If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t be you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you making this so much harder on yourself?” There is genuine curiosity dripping from Verdugo’s words. A confusion, of sorts, as if he can’t understand why John Wick is putting off the inevitable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kate had been similarly curious, although hers had been riddled with amusement. Now she was dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But every assassin thought themselves invincible, to a degree. Yes, they were far more aware of mortality than the average person having watched the life drain from countless eyes. But the older assassins in particular, who had brushed with death regularly, often seemed to forget that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John, himself, was guilty of that. He thinks to the tie that does not hang from his neck, which instead, he had left with Helen. He might never wear one again in his promise to her to not let anyone have a chance at defeating him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make it easier on yourself and let her go.” The other assassin pauses, “I’ll make sure it’s quick. Painless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No business shall be conducted on Continental grounds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to take this outside?” John asks, hoping against hope that Verdugo is stupid or confident enough to make a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo inclines his head, “You forget, Mister Wick. You’re not the one with the multi-million-dollar bounty… Consider my offer. Others’ targeting the Boogeyman’s woman will be far more malicious.” He starts to ascend back up the stairs, “Be seeing you, Mister Wick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John repeats the rule one last time before forcing himself to turn away. Until Verdugo leaves the Continental, John can’t do shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That said, he’d be extra wary of tails on his way home. Just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s almost tempted to let the assassin tail him. Take him to the middle of nowhere and pummel him to death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His focus has never been so chaotic. He’s typically good at ignoring the smack talk. At walking away from those seeking to push him or make him lose his resolve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John needs to stick to the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen is safe. Protected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus won’t let anything happen to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to do his part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods to Charon as he leaves, ignoring the countless sets of eyes watching him as he strides through the lobby with purpose. The valet is gone when he reaches the stairs and John takes a moment to breathe. To go over the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino will still be his point of contact. The easiest of the D’Antonio’s to convince to go along with his plan. But now he has leverage to use with Lorenzo, which makes it significantly easier to breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just needs to get the bounty removed. Then he can deal with the rest—the other enemies who might target Helen, the missing persons’ case being explored, and the countless unresolved feelings that had been flowing between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a way, he’s relieved that the deadline is only two days away because he’s not sure how much more he can take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The valet pulls up to the curb with his car and John hands him a tip as he walks by. Santino’s penthouse condo wasn’t too far away, just over the bridge and into Manhattan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> John is waved into the garage by security and he parks next to one of Santino’s many, but mostly unused, sports cars, before heading to the elevator.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he arrives, a few members of Santino’s entourage were relaxing around his penthouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares plays a video game with a few of her co-bodyguards. She throws him a smirk as John is wanded down by another member of Santino’s protection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands move in a blur as she signs </span>
  <b>
    <em>you still alive, old man?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his eyes and signs back </span>
  <b>
    <em>Respect your elders.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares only grins wider </span>
  <b>
    <em>I’d rather respect your girlfriend. I’ve seen the pictures. She has a nice ass</em>
  </b>
  <b>.</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Not knowing how to respond to that, John just shakes his head and moves further into the penthouse suite. Santino appears at the balcony, always one to make an entrance, and descends down the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John! Always a pleasure. Café?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “Si. Gratzi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino motions with a hand and leads John to a kitchen where two more of his men were sitting. Both regard John with interest but he ignores their stares. Santino barks an order in Italian and one of them stands to make the espresso.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have to forgive the mess,” Santino says, although John has noticed no mess to speak of, “My father and sister are visiting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hums, “Are they here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no. Gianna doesn’t travel often and prefers to use the advantages of the Continental whenever she does. My father is staying with a business associate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John didn’t understand much of politics, but he was well aware that business associate meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>mistress</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this case. He says nothing as Santino’s henchman hands them each a small cup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Santino asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances around not so subtly and Santino gives another order. The men vacate the room and John can hear them passing on to others outside the kitchen that it is time to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors going around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but I never believe such fickle things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a lie, but John let it slide. He didn’t come here to argue with the Italian mafiaso after all. He can hear the swing of the door and he glances back. Ares has come in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you don’t mind, John, but I do prefer to keep my head of security close at all times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He resists the urge to roll his eyes but nods, signing as he speaks, for Ares benefit, “Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino offers a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and John finds himself doubting that this is a good idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Remember your promise</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. He will come home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, please,” Santino says, “Enlighten me with the truth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rumors,” John admits, “are largely true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not entirely?” Santino leans forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is anything entirely true?” John evades with a practiced ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is she your girlfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve never technically put such a label on our relationship.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not technically a lie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> John thinks. “But for all intents and purposes, she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino grins broadly, already rapt by the drama of it all. John will never understand the Mafioso’s fascination with such things. Truthfully, John isn’t certain why anybody gives a damn about the lives of people they don’t care about but that’s another matter entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mio Dio, John. I did not think you had it in you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely withholds another eyeroll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now what? You destroy New York piece by piece, until there’s no one left to harm her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s plan B.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And plan A?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows down the espresso, keeping an eye on Ares as he prepares to explain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mateo DeLuca holds the hit over Helen. I’m sure you’re familiar with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve never actually met.” Santino says, “But he is my cousin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods once, “And of his mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isabella. My dear aunt Valentina’s daughter. Until she disowned and dishonored her family to marry that scoundrel, Dante. Quite the tragic affair, although I was too young to remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She remembers you.” John says, “She’s ordered your death, along with that of your father and sister, in exchange for the release of Helen’s contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares moves fast but John is faster. He grabs a cutting board from the island and uses it to catch the two knives she throws at him before he discards it, throwing it to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax!” He says as he signs, before turning back to Santino, “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have offered you an explanation. I’d have killed you the moment you walked in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino looks to his guard, quietly ordering her to stand down, before looking back at John. “Go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They want the Camorra.” John says before taunting, “And it would be easy enough to give them. Except I don’t trust them. Nor do I like the idea of the High Table coming after me while DeLuca takes Rome, free of consequence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it you have a plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would require your cooperation, as well as that of your father and sister.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How so?” There is a glint of excitement in Santino’s eyes that John really doesn’t understand but he isn’t going to complain if it means the mafiaso is willing to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John glances to Ares, who has her arms crossed and is still watching him with suspicion. “We’ll need to stage your death. I’ll take photographic evidence to give to DeLuca. Once he exchanges his end of the bargain, you can present the DeLuca’s to the High Table to be tried for treason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you walk away with the girl.” Santino hums, shaking his shoulders as he considers it, “How exciting! How would you like to fake my death? Strangle me? Pretend to cut me open, hmm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unbelievable. It takes him a moment to even remember to speak, “I was thinking fake a bullet to the head. It doesn’t leave much room for questioning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we to do this now?” Santino is practically bouncing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, John is tempted to just yell </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> but withholds with a shake of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping to speak with your father, first. But yes, it would be today. If I’m seen coming and going while you are obviously alive, DeLuca might suspect that I’ve tipped you off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d have to stay in hiding for two days.” John says, “And no one can know. Not even your entourage or security. Save Ares.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes!” Santino nods, “They will mourn their loss only for me to rise, like Christo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swears he catches Ares rolling her eyes while Santino considers how to best spin faking his death. Not that she’d ever admit it. She was too loyal. A rare quality in the Underworld, but one John respected nonetheless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you get a hold of your father remotely?” John asks, “Over video call?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course!” Santino gives instructions to Ares. She nods and leaves the room, “New video conferencing on top-of-the-line laptop. Just released from Geneva. It’s untraceable, unhackable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other assassin returns with the laptop and sets it up for Santino. The heir calls his father while John closes his eyes. The youngest D’Antonio had been an easy sell—willing to play dead for the shock value and entertainment factors alone. And while John was certain Lorenzo would be swayed by Isabella’s involvement, he was aware that Lorenzo might take a bit more pushing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call is picked up by one of Lorenzo’s bodyguards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is aware that high-ranking members of the Underworld kept hired guns, and particularly members of the High Table required guarding, but it still throws him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John, who can barely stand the presence of friends, cannot understand the appeal of such things. Or the inability to take care of one’s self.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few minutes, Lorenzo is brought to the computer. He settles down in front of it, peering at the camera. A rush of Italian parts from his lips and John finds himself code-switching quickly, trying to change the language his brain would accept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you, I would see you Friday before I left—” Lorenzo was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, father, but I have John Wick here to speak with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino turns the camera towards John.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John!” Lorenzo says in surprise, “I was hoping to see you on my visit. When I heard about your… conundrum, I assumed you would be too busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo,” John steps closer to the camera, “It’s about that matter I wish to speak with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it all comes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The involvement of the DeLuca’s. Isabella’s slow, careful takeover of the Syndicate. Playing kingmaker to her son and murdering her husband, all in quest of taking back the Camorra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The contract on Helen’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How, despite the contract, John doesn’t trust the Syndicate crime family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That </span>
  <em>
    <span>whore</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Lorenzo spits out, when John has finished, “She gets that from her mother. Being a princess in the Camorra was not enough.” The old man shakes his head, “Her ambition is her downfall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can have them tried at the High Table for their treason.” John nudges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo certainly perks up at that. What a display that could be. The Camorra annihilating its number one competitor, publicly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll testify for the High Table.” He continues, “All I ask is a few hours of your time. And that of your children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like the idea of playing a dead man.” Lorenzo replies uncertainly, “It would look weak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only for you to rise from the grave, seizing what has fallen in DeLuca’s absence. Syndicate could be yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo considers it, a smile breaking upon his face. “Alright, John. Tell me your plan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. With the ashes of ash, I saw rise in the heat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to meetmeinthematinee for once again reading over my work before I post it &lt;3 :) Appreciate you so much!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Lorenzo had agreed. Miraculously, the head of the family determined they would all participate. In exchange for John’s testimony and the promise that the Syndicate would be up for grabs once Mateo and DeLuca were removed from the picture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John goes over the overarching plan, allowing Lorenzo to interject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds himself more than willing to let Lorenzo take control, so long as they both get what they want.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino would be the first to disappear. John was already there and had been seen by Santino’s entourage. When word of his death reached the Underworld, there would be half a dozen witnesses to say the last man who saw him alive was John Wick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Word would reach DeLuca before John even sent him the photo evidence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that meant Santino couldn’t stay in New York. Too many people had access to Santino’s penthouse. And Lorenzo didn’t trust his son to not blow their cover by getting bored and posting on social media. John had to agree, although he didn’t like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He liked Ares suggestion even less.</span>
</p><p><b><em>Santino goes with you,</em></b> <span>she signs,</span><b><em> I’ll stay here to tell his death. Then, I can take Gianna from the city and find you.</em></b></p><p>
  <span>He’s loathe to agree but that could </span>
  <em>
    <span>work</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gianna’s ‘death’ would be next, after all. Lorenzo agreed to inform his daughter of the plan that evening when they were set to attend a banquet. There, they would be given the news of Santino’s untimely demise and immediately adjourn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares would stay behind to get Gianna and drive her from the city, where her death could also be staged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca would see the D’Antonio’s dropping and think himself nearly victorious. Friday morning, he would stage Lorenzo’s death and bring DeLuca the results.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so fucking close. He longs to finish it all, but he can’t rush this. It might set DeLuca off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to follow the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Starting with Santino.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faking Santino’s death turns into a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>mess</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Santino spends more than an hour going from room to room to choose the best background in which to fake his death. The kitchen, he explains, was undignified. As was the bathroom. The hallway was </span>
  <em>
    <span>plebian</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The game room </span>
  <em>
    <span>juvenile</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After an hour, he returns to the kitchen where John waits while Ares pours red food coloring into a mixing bowl, along with corn syrup and a powdery substance. Somehow, he get’s the idea that it’s not the first time she’s pulled something like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to be killed in the library.” Santino announces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares nearly chokes as she starts to laugh, a hand on the counter to support herself. Even John is taken aback at the request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” John confirms, “want to be killed in the library?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>you?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Santino repeats, “I read.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares, who had begun to recover, loses it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks away from Ares, fighting a smile, “What’s wrong with the living room?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wish me to die </span>
  <em>
    <span>on a couch</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Santino sounds disgusted at the very thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unbelievable.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Library it is.” John sighs. They’re probably all overthinking it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’ll go throw some books about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it looks like I put up a fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John spares a glance to Ares. The younger assassin is really struggling to hold it together and John can’t blame her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t give you the opportunity for a fight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino huffs, “So I am supposed to do nothing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I was actually out to kill you,” John reasons, “I would just walk up to you and shoot you in the head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So boring!” And the mafiaso storms out of the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I’ll give him defensive marks. It’ll appease him</em>
  </b>
  <span>. Ares signs, clearly having thought it through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you work for him?” John asks aloud as he signs along.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>The pay is good. And I go to galas.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged you for liking that kind of thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares gives him a sick grin as she signs, </span>
  <b>
    <em>I get to meet a lot of rich, married women unhappy with their husbands.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, “You’re worse than a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Trust me. I’m much better than a man.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Finding nothing to say to that, John turns on his heel and walks out of the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes Santino another hour to determine </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the library he would best look displayed. He decides against the bookshelves and maps out a fight that will never happen. Santino recants the details of the fight with vivid imagery, seeming not to care that John isn’t listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares carefully paints a layer of blood onto Santino’s head while he grumbles about all the more dignified ways that John could have chosen to kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’s finally ready to be posed, the mafia prince starts babbling on about the lighting in the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is aware that Santino is entirely a political player, but it blows his mind that someone that self-absorbed could really be tied for number two in wielding the power of the Camorra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was unreal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His headache is real by the time Santino actually manages to stay still and in place long enough for John to snap a couple of photos, all highlighting the wound and Santino’s dead eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is ready to leave then, but Santino insists on showering before they leave. Washing his face, he says, is not enough and he doesn’t trust that the shower John has in his safe house will be sufficient.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he is done, John is </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>ready to go. To get back home to Helen, just as he had promised her. But Santino needs to pack. When the mafiaso finally reports being ready, he has more suitcases than will fit in John’s car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Ares takes pity on them both and promises to bring the suitcases the following day, convincing Santino an overnight bag would be enough. They finally settle upon </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>overnight bags. As Santino goes through his things to pick out the necessities, Ares turns to John.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You should hit me, </em>
  </b>
  <span>she signs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>You should hit me, </em>
  </b>
  <span>Ares repeats. </span>
  <b>
    <em>When I go to alert L.D., I should look like I was in a fight. Hit me.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a fair point, John thinks. If DeLuca had done his homework on his cousin, he would know that Santino didn’t go anywhere without his head of security.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” John asks as he signs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bows her head in the start of a nod and John strikes hard and fast. The younger assassin stumbles back crashing into the coffee table. It breaks under her weight and she makes a harsh face in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John offers a hand to help her back up but she waves it off, wincing as she pushes herself up to her feet. Dusting herself off, she signs </span>
  <b>
    <em>Be seeing you, John Wick.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>He responds in kind before taking Santino out to the garage before the mafiaso could come up with another reason to slow them down. John takes great joy in locking Santino in his trunk before leaving the building, avoiding any chance of witnesses or cameras seeing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The plan had been to let Santino out once they crossed city lines and were certain they would not be seen. It had been Lorenzo’s idea to put him in the trunk and John was all to happy too oblige that request.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the plan quickly changes when he spots the tail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much, he thinks, for getting home early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He changes courses, pretending not to notice the black sedan four cars back, and heads upstate. It might add more to his trip but, assuming the tail was reporting back to anyone, it would keep them from knowing that he was actually headed for Vermont.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s gut tells him its Verdugo, but he can’t know that for sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, he waits until it is just them on an empty stretch of highway before he rolls down the window and sticks his middle finger out and up, letting the tail know that he sees him. He’s watching him, even as he’s being watched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car slows immensely at the sight and John watches in his rearview as the car turns around in the middle of the road.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whoever was following him had probably been under the assumption that Helen was being held within the city, or at least close enough by that they could tail John to find her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But tailing anybody for four hours without being caught was damn near impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet another reason John had moved her out of state.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls over not long after at State Park just off the road to let Santino out of the trunk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mobster whines and John does his best to ignore him as he drives. He makes his path convoluted, impossible to follow just in case whoever had been following him switched cars. Unlikely, he thinks, but paranoia reigns supreme.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Spending six hours in a car with Santino, John discovers, might be the closest he has ever come to experiencing Hell on Earth and by the time they reach the safehouse, John considers that it really might just be easier to murder this particular D’Antonio and be done with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is it?” Santino sounds unimpressed as John parks the car next to Marcus’. John couldn’t give a shit what Santino thought as turns the car off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurries inside, anxious to set eyes upon her again. To reassure himself of her safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s silent as he walks in, so different than the night before when he’d walked in on Helen breaking Marcus down. He walks down the hall and into the living room as Santino follows, looking around in disdain at the cottage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus rounds the corner, eyes narrowing as he spots Santino. His eyes shoot to John, sending a glare. Bringing Santino had not been part of the initial plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John gives a shrug considering he didn’t have a choice and thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>not exactly thrilled about this either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell—” Santino starts but is shushed by Marcus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin holds a finger up over his lips and gestures with his head towards the couch. John walks around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen is asleep, her legs tucked in close to her. She has changed back into his shirt and boxers. Her dark curls have fallen over her cheek. He can’t resist but to reach down and push the locks back from her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She tried to wait up for you, but she fell asleep a little before midnight.” Marcus says softly so as not to disturb her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help but smile at that. His perfect girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slips his jacket off and drapes it over the couch. “I’ll put her to bed and be back in a few.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bends, slipping a hand underneath her legs and another behind her back, scooping her up and into his arms. She makes a soft moan of surprise at the contact but quickly leans into him, resting her head upon his shoulder and burying her face in the crook of his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a conscious effort to ignore Santino’s curious gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes her down the hall and to the room they share. He’s not sure how he feels or what he thinks anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After months of thinking he would never hold her like this, followed by nights where she sleeps in his arms, he no longer feels a grasp on reality. His worst fear—that Helen might be harmed or used against him has already come true. And he has never benefited more from a singular fact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He adjusts his grip on her as he pulls back the covers on the side of the bed he now deems as hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s spent a lifetime sleeping alone. Now he wonders if he will spend the rest of his life sleeping on the left of the bed, just to imagine the nights where she slept to his right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully, he lays her down. There is another soft moan, this time of protest, as he lets go. She turns her head onto the pillow, snuggling in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks as he drags the blankets up and around Helen, tucking her in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bends down and kisses her head. His fingers glide along her hair and he finds himself at peace knowing he’ll join her soon. After he stops Marcus from murdering Santino.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sighs and forces himself to go back out into the living room where the assassin and mafiaso stand, glaring at one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This wasn’t part of the plan, John.” Marcus says without looking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a judgment call. Santino is too well-known in the city. We decided it was best if we got him out for the time being.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rest assured, Marcus, I have no interest in being in this prehistoric hut with either of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only for twelve hours.” John says before Marcus can respond. “Ares will be by tomorrow to pick up him. Then he’s off to spend the remainder of the week at a spa an hour north of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus, thankfully, has the self-control to not say anything else and nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that is settled, you can show me to my room.” Santino announces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that was something John hadn’t considered. For any normal person, it was only going to be one night and that wouldn’t be much of an issue. He could grin and bare it on the pull-out couch with Marcus or the floor. But Santino…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus snorts and walks away, into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be sharing the pull-out with Marcus.” John says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino loudly proclaims, “I’ll do no such—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his hand is around Santino’s neck and the knife in his pocket has been flipped open and pressed to Santino’s stomach. “Wake her,” he says darkly, “And you and I are going to have a problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More importantly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Helen</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s going to have a problem.” Marcus adds. “John will just kill you. Helen’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay, okay…” Santino holds up his hands. John releases him and the mafiaso straightens his jacket with a glare, “I don’t see the need to be so, so dramatic!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After spending several hours staging Santino’s death, followed by six hours in a car with the mafiaso, John has nothing to say to the accusation that he was the dramatic one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couch or the floor.”  John says, “It’s one night. You can handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs, “Is there at least a bathroom in this shack? Or must I relieve myself in the woods, like an animal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is tempted to lie but points down the hall to the bathroom. Santino stalks off, taking his bag with him. When the door has closed, Marcus turns to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now I might require a marker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John snorts, “I just spent six hours in the car with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus inclines his head, the start of a smile on his face, “You might just need a therapist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help but smile at that, at the thought of Helen already asleep and tucked into his bed. “I might.” John agrees, before asking, “How was she today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. She was getting restless, so we went for a run. Then I gave her a crash course in handguns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s head shoots up, “You did what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She asked.” Marcus says, “And I don’t blame her, considering everything going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You taught Helen to shoot a gun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A handgun. She already knew a bit about rifles. Went hunting with her grandfather as a kid, but we both agreed that rifles would likely be impractical for her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John flounders for a moment, torn between the diametrically opposed thoughts of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It was probably a good idea for her to have some basic self-defense training. It would probably make her feel better in the long run, knowing that she could take care of herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But another part of him, a darker more possessive part, hated that it had to be done. He should be enough to protect her. And if anyone was going to teach her to protect herself, it should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He was out doing what he could to keep her safe, but Marcus was the one actually watching over her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jealousy, he realizes. He was jealous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which was entirely unfair. Marcus was doing him the favor of a lifetime, ensuring her safety when John couldn’t but he was also spending more time with her. When John came home, they were able to talk but they mostly just slept. And while he wouldn’t trade the hours spent with her curled up in his arms for anything, he was coming to hate the daylight because it meant he would have to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that wasn’t Marcus’ fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tampers down on the feeling and thinks, instead, of the image it presents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was she?” He asks, unable to help the quirk of his lips at the thought of Helen with a gun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A fucking natural.” Marcus says, matching John’s grin, “She overthinks things a bit, gets in her own head, but she’s good. Given a bit of practice, she’ll be a force.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s already a force</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John thinks, but he gets what Marcus means. Without a gun, Helen had been able to talk herself out of captivity. She’d systematically been able to manipulate and break her captors down until they were willing to pursue her interests.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Add a gun to the mix…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who knows,” Marcus adds, “Maybe I’ll have her use Santino for target practice tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smirks, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Santino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Santino’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother</span>
  </em>
  <span> is sorry about Santino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His father, too, but John doesn’t say that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it will be fine,” Marcus continues, “Whatever it takes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “You good if I go to bed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go for it. I’ll deal with the dipshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John inclines his head in thanks and heads down the hall, undoing his vest. He folds it, draping it over an arm as he opens the door to the bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He changes into his pajamas in the dark as quietly as he can manage before he makes his way to his side of the bed. John pulls back the covers and slips in beside her. He can’t quite make out her features in the dark but stirs as the bed shifts under his weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” She murmurs softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here.” He tells her, opening an arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen hums softly and curls into him. “Missed you.” She says as she nuzzles into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I missed you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John closes his eyes and allows the warmth of her body to lull him to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be so easy, John thinks upon waking, to kiss her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen is still asleep, her head resting on his bicep, her arm stretched up and over his chest. Her palm rests over his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s facing him, lips parted ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft and pink and perfect and all he would have to do is bend down. Brush his lips against hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he shouldn’t kiss her while she’s sleeping. That borders on creepy and disrespectful. Then again, considering the fact that he stalked her for </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>, breaking into her house to watch her sleep, this really didn’t seem like that much of an invasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It also occurs to John that he’s never kissed anyone before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been kissed, a handful of times. Grabby partners or experimenting in his youth, he’d allowed others to kiss him to try it. To know what it felt like. He hadn’t been impressed nor had he understood the fascination with tasting another in such an intimate manner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet now he can barely withhold from leaning forward. Tasting </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifts in her sleep, her leg reaching out over his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles with kissing her head, holding her in his arms for just a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If all has gone well, he’ll meet Sofia in Jersey in just a matter of hours. Hopefully, she’s already landed with Isabella DeLuca. If not, he still has the D’Antonio’s on his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ares should be able to follow his instructions to pick Helen up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of him is concerned that now three more people will know the whereabouts of his safehouse. But Santino won’t care enough to remember, Gianna has no use for four million dollars, and Ares wouldn’t act against the wishes of her boss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, he thinks, it will all be fine. And they’re so fucking close to all this being over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which leads him to a whole new set of worries that he can’t begin to touch now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks back down at the woman asleep in his arms. He loves her so much that it makes his heart swell. He wonders if it's actually possible for the heart to just burst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s interrupted with his thoughts when a door slams. Helen jolts in her sleep, eyes opening as she startles await.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” John quickly soothes, ready to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>murder </span>
  </em>
  <span>Santino. He strokes a hand up and down her back, “It’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck…” She mumbles, eyes closing as she turns her head into his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a door.” He says, shaking his head as he gently takes his arm back, lowering her head to the pillow. “Go back to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You getting’ up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes a noise of disapproval and John can’t help but smile. “Go back to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen grumbles a bit as John slips from the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John walks to the door, careful to be gentle as he closes it behind him. The bathroom door is closed and the water is running. He can only guess that it’s Santino. He heads down the hall and into the living room where Marcus is closing the pull-out back into the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell?” John asks, gesturing with his head towards the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wanted espresso. I told him there was coffee. He told me to make him a cup. I told him to go fuck himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his eyes, “Just a few more hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You owe me so bad for putting me in a bed with Santino.” John tosses one of the couch cushions to Marcus, who places it back where it goes, “Did he wake her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “I told her to go back to sleep but I give it fifty-fifty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he says it, John walks over to the kitchen. He dumps the coffee grounds from the previous day and refills it with fresh ones, adding more than yesterday to account for their added guest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, thank you, John. It seems one of you is a gracious host.” Santino says, fully dressed in a dark purple suit that is very out of place for the cottage. He pulls out a chair and sits at the small table. “I like my coffee with Splenda and crème.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We got sugar and milk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mafiaso’s shoulders slump as he leans back into his seat, muttering in Italian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do realize you’re a grown adult, don’t you?” Marcus asks incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the fact that Marcus was older and had spent longer in the Underworld than John had, Marcus had mostly been involved with the mid-level mob stuff. He was assigned tasks and he completed them. Like John, he wasn’t ambitious enough to actual get political himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike John, he worked for a single organization. Being freelance, albeit with ties to certain organizations, John was more exposed to high ranking officials and their families. He’d seen first-hand the way that heirs were treated and honored without accomplishment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John expects this kind of behavior from Santino.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus doesn’t expect it from </span>
  <em>
    <span>anybody</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino replies scathingly and John ignores it, focusing instead on the morning ritual or preparing coffee. He refills the water tank, setting the carafe back under the filter when he feels arms reaching around him, a warm body pressing against his back as Helen rests her head against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He realizes, then, that he hadn’t actually warned her about Santino.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d been asleep when they got home, and he had hoped she would fall back asleep after the loud slam. It would seem that was not the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently, she either hadn’t noticed the mafiaso in her sleepy state or was uncaring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John flips on the coffee maker before reaching an arm back to hug her. She loosens her grip as he turns to put his back to the counter. When he is settled, she rests her head against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s the suit?” she asks as she yawns, telling John it was the second option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to stop himself from smiling at just how precious she is when she’s half-asleep. “Santino.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hums, “And he’s here why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus gives a bark of laughter as John’s lips twitch. Santino makes a face of offense and John can’t bring himself to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We faked his death yesterday. He needs a place to lay low where he won’t be seen by anybody he knows. His bodyguard is coming later today to pick him up and take him to a spa up north. He’ll only be here for a few more hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better be sure of that,” Marcus says, “Otherwise we’re switching bed partners tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not gonna happen.” Helen replies before John can think of a way to appropriately say not a chance in fucking hell, “John’s a cuddler and I don’t share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his face flush as Marcus laughs aloud again. Even Santino visibly brightens at the statement, saying, “Is he, now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows but manages to tease back, “Says the one wrapped around me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugs, “You’re warm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good to know you have your uses, isn’t it, John?” Marcus says, walking over to the fridge, “What do you want for breakfast, sweetheart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not picky.” She picks her head up from John’s chest, looking over her shoulder, “Whatever’s easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I would like a protein scramble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to set you on fire.” Marcus mutters as he digs through the fridge, “Eggs and sausage it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches over the fridge, wordlessly handing John the milk. John grabs it and kisses Helen’s head. “Go sit down, I’ll bring you your coffee.” He promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes a face but nods, dragging her hand across his stomach as she walks away. The line between them continues to blur and all he wants is to pull her back into his arms, already regretting telling her to go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are a hundred reasons why he doesn’t, but he tells himself it's so he can make her coffee. He pours the milk in first, as she likes it, before filling both their coffee mugs. She’s chosen the seat across from Santino and John wonders if it's to put herself farther away from the mafiaso or so she can see him, better analyze his movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets the mug in front of her, trailing his own fingers across her shoulders as he makes his way to sit on her other side. John doesn’t realize he’s even doing it until he removes his hand and sits down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have the two of you been together?” Santino asks curiously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John tries to think of an answer, but he’s saved from having to say anything when Helen mirrors his body language, inclining her head, “Why do you want to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m curious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is watching the mafiaso closely and John wonders what she’s thinking, what she’s looking for. After a few moments, Helen sits back, coffee in hand, “We’ve been seeing each other for seven months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can see Marcus smirk at her answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds… normal. And it’s not technically a lie. He had been seeing her weekly for seven months so if John has to confirm it, he won’t stumble. Again, he wishes he knew what was going on inside her head. He can see in her eyes that she has a theory but she’s testing it, carefully laying traps all around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a long time to keep a secret.” Santino replies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were aware of the consequences should it get out.” She sips her coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. Now your life is on the line…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John opens his mouth to warn Santino off, but Helen gives him a gentle kick under the table, stopping him before he can utter a sound. He closes his mouth, turning his attention back to his love. Her face betrays nothing, but he can see the sparkle in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s in her element.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As is yours,” she’s using her counseling voice now. The gentle one that John knows is designed solely to lead him into a false sense of security. “Do you fear death, Santino?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” the answer slips easily from him, “But regardless, it is not a present concern. Half of New York is not out looking for </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks thoughtful, “And yet, your life is on the line in the same way mine is. Hanging on the same thread in balance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John can’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not the same thread, my dear. After all, you’re being targeted for your relationship. I’m being targeted for my power.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it bother you, then, that my life is worth that of yourself </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>your family in the eyes of DeLuca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca is a fool.” Santino snaps and, again, John is prepared to interfere when Helen, again, kicks him under the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John stops himself, catching the eye of Marcus. Even as he cooks, Marcus is grinning like a fool as he listens in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen leans forward, setting her mug back on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you say that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He thinks he can defeat the Camorra, defeat me, in such a simplistic manner? No. No, I think not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very confident.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have good reason to be. I am aware of how to take care of myself. To squash bugs like Mateo. Of course, it is not your fault that you cannot say the same. It takes a great deal of training and intelligence to understand how to survive in a world such as ours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen gives a subtle nod that both Santino and Marcus miss but the quirk of her lips tells John she’s figured out what she wanted to. She sits back in her seat, sipping at her coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John, come get your plates.” Marcus calls over and John stands, this time letting his hand skim Helen’s shoulders consciously. She leans into the touch and it thrills him more than words can ever say. “Santino, if you want a drink, come get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mafioso grumbles but follows John into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sets the first plate in front of Helen, leaning down as he does to whisper in her ear, “Having fun?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirks, leaning back to whisper, “Are all Italian mafiosos narcissistic or have I just been lucky?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve just been lucky. I swear, they’re not all like Santino or DeLuca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, those two are entirely different kinds of narcissists. DeLuca’s a covert narcissist. I can’t decide whether Santino’s bordering on sadistic or sociopathic or a little of both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you say that?’ And there’s a start of a smile on his face that comes from just listening to her at work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The lack of empathy is startling, which makes me think sociopathic but did you hear how he kept bringing it back to me? Not focusing on my experience, but on his perception of my fear. He wants me to be afraid. It amuses him, which makes me think sadism.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hums and quotes, “In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marquis de Sade.” Helen annotes, “A nihilist if ever there was one.” She glances over to John, “Whichever way Santino lands, I’m dying to pick his brain apart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pats her shoulder, “You should have him for a few more hours. That should keep you busy for a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands back up, walking around to her other side before settling back in her seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long are you here?” Helen asks softly, her expression falling from one of amusement to resignation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to get going as soon as possible.” He admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus pulls out a chair, setting down his own plate as John takes a bite, “What’s the plan for today?” The other assassin asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If all goes well, Ares should have already staged Gianna’s death and she’ll drop off the pictures when she gets here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Lorenzo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow. I’ll go straight from him to DeLuca.” John glances at Helen as Santino sits back down, “The contract should be lifted then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if he tries for the double-cross, we’ll have Isabella.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “I’m meeting Sofia at noon to go over the plan, make sure Isabella’s secured.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That shouldn’t take long.” Marcus says with a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” John agrees, “I’ll spend the rest of the day in the city.” He leaves out that it will be spent reminding people that it would be in their best interests not to pursue the contract.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels Helen’s eyes on him as he eats, idly listening to Marcus and Santino argue over bullshit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day closer to the nightmare being over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of John is disgusted with himself for even thinking he might miss these nights and early mornings spent by her side. But he can't lie to himself anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's grown addicted to her presence, just as he had on his late night visits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he's not entirely sure what to do with that. Not sure how to admit the fact he doesn't know how he'll ever grow used to a life without her sunshine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But like she can feel him slipping, Helen reaches out, resting her hand on top of his. He turns his own, letting her entwine her fingers with his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She deserves so much better than him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But everyday it's getting harder to remember that.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Seated soft and as pure as the snow, I fell in love with the fire long ago</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to meetmeinthematinee for editing and reassurance with this chapter :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mornings for John have become excruciatingly difficult. Driving away from Helen had always been hard. Leaving her office, then later her home always felt impossible. Each step away was like torture but nothing compared to the pain of leaving her at the cottage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive to New Jersey isn’t much further than New York but every mile stretches on. What once wouldn’t have phased him now tears at his soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only comfort he has is every hour he drives is an hour closer to the time he can turn his car around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a little after noon when he finally reaches the motel by the airport. He pulls into the lot, driving by the strip of rooms, looking for something to indicate which is Sofia’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds a window with a playing card in the window. The ace of hearts. She had used a sharpie to etch on the letter ‘V’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His v-card. Hilarious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John parks the car outside the window with a sigh, shaking his head as he does. He walks over and knocks on the door. It doesn’t take long for Sofia to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hair is piled into a ponytail. She’s dressed inconspicuously. Blue jeans and a hoodie as she hides away in a sleazy motel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Sof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Owe me big, John. This bitch is a talker.” She replies shaking her head, the start of a smile on her lips. She opens the door wider, allowing John to slip in. The motel room itself is shit but he knows that Sofia has slept in far worse conditions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room is adjoining, and an open door leads to a second room. John walks over, looking in. Isabella DeLuca’s are bound behind her, a rope leading from her hands to the headboard. Her head lolls in a way that tells John she is asleep rather than resting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wouldn’t shut up, so I sedated her. Hope that’s okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Considering how many times Helen was sedated by her son, I have no qualms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That causes Sofia’s head to swing in his direction and it occurs to John that he never really went into detail with his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John dips his head, “It’s a long story.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We got time.” She says without room for argument. Sofia shakes her head as she turns back to her room. She walks over to the small, two-person table and sits. “What the fuck, John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having already sat for the past four hours, he remains standing, leaning against the wall as he does. “I should probably preface this with the fact Helen and I aren’t actually together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia makes a face, “You’re kidding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes a large show of sighing, rising to her feet. Sofia walks over to the window and reaches just past the blinds, pulling out the card she had left in the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess you can keep this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She throws it at him and John catches it with ease, placing it face down on the table as Sofia settles back into her seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hilarious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re hilariously disappointing.” She shoots back, “Here I thought I was helping you save the love of your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never said she wasn’t that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia narrows her eyes, “So you love her. But you’re not together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sums it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, “So what are you? Friends? Neighbors? Confidants?” And like Winston, he can see the moment it clicks in her head, “Oh, fuck. She’s not your therapist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John changes his mind about standing in that moment, pulling out the chair and sinking in. “We met in a café about seven months ago. Gave me her card, introduced herself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you thought she was pretty. So instead of asking her out like most people would have done, you booked an appointment.” She shakes her head, “Jesus fucking Christ, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was normal. And kind and pretty. And I knew she didn’t belong in our world.” John leans forward, desperately trying to explain where his thoughts had been all those months ago. “I didn’t mean for it to turn into what it did. I just wanted to talk to her one more time, get her out of my head. But, instead, it became addicting. Being around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After two months, we were starting to run out of things to talk about. And I was more afraid of losing her than I was the consequences when I told her about the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia puts her face in her hand, “You didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did. In hindsight, I think I was looking for her to reject me. To force me to move on when I wasn’t strong enough to walk away on my own. But she didn’t reject me. She wasn’t afraid or disbelieving. And it was around there that I went from being obsessed and infatuated to madly in love with her. It was also around there when I got a little out of control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up at him doubtfully, like she can’t believe it’s going to get worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I started following her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not proud of it. And God knows I’ve done worse things in my life.” He shrugs, “I—again, it started small. I told myself it was just curiosity that made me follow her home the first time. And then it became every Friday. Then every weekend. Then every day. But nothing stays a secret forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “Last Friday, Hels was taken from her bed in the middle of the night. I got a call not long after saying I would get Helen back, alive and unharmed, if I killed Lorenzo, Gianna, and Santino D’Antonio. At the time, I didn’t know it was DeLuca. I didn’t have a name, an organization. Just an order and a blind promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was two days of hell, trying to find anything on who had her. Where she was. But Hels is nothing if not resourceful. She managed to manipulate one of the guards into sending me a text, letting me know who had her. Sunday night, I was able to get her out. Took her home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Monday the contract went wide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “One-part revenge, one-part manipulation. Mateo still wants the D’Antonio’s dead. Did you get the file that was scanned to you? On Isabella?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia nods back, “Yeah, got it before I even landed in Rome. Isabella’s mother was a D’Antonio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a whole lot of political bullshit that I don’t care about.” John admits, “The running theory is that Isabella thinks she can simultaneously get revenge on her family and strengthen the Syndicate by eliminating Lorenzo and his heirs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But if you eliminate Lorenzo, the High Table and the Camorra come for you.” Sofia finishes, “That said,” she looks up at John, curiously, “I heard a rumor Santino D’Antonio is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you kill him?” John pulls out his phone and finds the pictures. He hands it to Sofia. Her eyes widen as she looks back to him, “The Camorra is going to destroy you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s staged.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia looks back at the picture, eyes narrowing. “It is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo and Gianna have agreed to do the same. Hopefully, it will be enough to convince Mateo. If not…” He gestures with his head towards the other room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Isabella was the contingency plan. Unfortunately, she was the contingency plan for every possible thing that could go wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you get Lorenzo to agree?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agreed to testify in front of the High Table that Mateo was trying to commit treason. Reverse of DeLuca’s plan. Instead of the Camorra falling and the Syndicate reaping the benefits, Syndicate will fall. The Camorra will be strengthened. And the contract on Helen will be lifted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia nods along, handing John back his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad. I can’t believe you thought of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t.” John says with a shrug, “I was more than willing to just kill them and suffer the consequences.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s the idiotic bastard I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helen wouldn’t entertain it as an option. She came up with faking their deaths. And the plan with Isabella.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia inclines her head, “Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips twitch just thinking about his love, “Hels is incredibly good at what she does. She pieced together that DeLuca wasn’t working alone long before I did. Kept telling me that he was too self-absorbed to come up with that kind of detailed plan. Kept pushing me to look at his mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other assassin leans forward, eyeing John with blatant curiosity. Like she can’t quite decide what she thinks about it all. After a minute of not being able to find whatever it is that she’s looking for, she says aloud, “I don’t get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s smart. Pretty. Clearly cares about you if she’s willing to put up with you and figure out how to save you. You admit you’re in love with her.“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks away, “So?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So why aren’t you fucking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, still looking at the ground, “You’re worse than Marcus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious. You’ve kept her around, despite the obvious dangers of our world. But you’re still keeping her at arm’s length. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John exhales a long breath. If she had only asked him that question a week ago, he would have been able to respond without hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was safer for both of them to avoid intimacies. Of course, he can’t say he wasn’t attached to her already. The stalking negated that in itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But sex complicated things. It always complicated things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was the matter that she was, technically, still his therapist. And though Helen was right, they did have god-awful boundaries, enough had changed over the course of the week that he couldn’t use that as an excuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, if he was already being honest with himself, he didn’t think Helen felt that way about him. She was always so professional, even when she teased him. It never occurred to him that she might have feelings for him too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he found out, they were already in over their heads with DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, truth be told, it didn’t matter that she held some kind of affection for him, too. She was still too good for him. And despite what she said and thought, he would always believe that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I could keep her away from our world. That if I didn’t cross that line, no one would come for her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia nods, genuinely looking sympathetic to his plight. “Relationships and the Underworld don’t mix. You can’t go to bed with someone when you’re both clutching a knife under your pillow, but you can’t date outsiders. You can’t walk in two worlds.” She inclines her head, “But her contract went viral. And now, for better or for worse, she’s in our world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head. “No. No, Helen </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>stay in the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People aren’t just going to forget, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She has a life. Family, friends. A career that she’s worked hard for. I can’t take that away from her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it won’t be easy, but she’s already in. There’s no turning back from that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks and licks his lips, considering a thought he had never allowed himself to fully entertain. “What if there was?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There isn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helen’s only tie to the Underworld is me.” John says aloud, “But what if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>wasn’t tied here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia’s eyes narrow, “You mean leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was unheard of, he knew. A near impossible task, especially for someone like him. Someone who had so many ties to the Underworld and virtually none in the real world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, more to himself than to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you really give this all up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For her?” John asks, nodding, “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia shakes her head, pushing, “Don’t just say that, John. Really think about it. If you cut ties from the Underworld, you’ll be isolated in a way you never have experienced. You won’t be able to come and go from the Continental. The High Table won’t protect you from legal trouble or the police. Friendships will be compromised because you can’t just walk between the two worlds. All those markers you’ve spent years collecting will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>worthless</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d have to blend into the real world. And the rules are different there. No more fights, no more killing. You’d have to follow the social rules that exist for outsiders. And it’s a whole lot of bullshit. If someone disrespects you, you can’t just snap their neck. You have to take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’ll be utterly alone. You may love Helen and she may love you, too, but she won’t understand. She won’t get that the rules you two live by are different. She won’t understand the extent of everything you stand to lose—wealth, status, privilege. Because you’ll be nobody.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, John, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> to depend on anybody for anything. But you’ll need to depend on her to navigate the real world. You’ll need to trust her implicitly. Have to learn to let her take the lead. You, who have spent your entire life alone, will have to figure out how to let somebody in completely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, tell me, do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>think that you can do that? That you can give up your entire life and livelihood for this woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For her to be happy? To have her life back?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Sofia watches him, but he holds her gaze. He knows it wouldn’t be easy, but he also knows that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> do it. Without regret or hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a minute, she softly asks, “Then what’s stopping you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She deserves so much better and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That might be the most misogynistic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Sofia interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Helen, she’s smart, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, “Ridiculously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh. And she’s emotionally stable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She shouldn’t be, all things considered, but she is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you doubting her ability to make her own damn decision about what she wants and what she deserves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The breath he has just taken now feels trapped in his chest. John is frozen in place as he realizes that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> what he had been doing. Not purposefully, but true all the same. Making decisions, calling the shots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that wasn’t his job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…………………………………………………………………………</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The drive is a blur and it’s a miracle he doesn’t get pulled over. He doesn’t touch the brake pedal until the moment he’s turning into the driveway of the safehouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half his day has been lost in a car and he can’t bring himself to care as he throws the car into park. He slams the door behind him, hurrying up the stairs and into the house. Marcus looks up as John reaches the living room, eyeing him over a furrowed brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John ignores him, focusing instead on the sound of someone moving about in the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen looks up as he rounds the corner and her mouth curves into a smile at the sight of him, “You’re back earl—mm!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John places a hand on either side of her head, drawing her in for a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment where she freezes, almost stunned, before Helen seems to realize what is happening. And then her arms wrap around him, reaching up over his shoulders as her lips part. She kisses back with fervor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips are softer than he imagined and, oh, he had imagined them a thousand a day for months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses her again, unable to stop himself now that he has begun. She tastes sweet and perfect and he can’t quite figure out how he’s made it this far without ever having done this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen’s tongue brushes across his lip and he meets it, licking and sucking at her like a dying man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, fuck, he hopes he dies like this. Asphyxiated, drowning in her kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> be how he dies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. Just release with her taste in his mouth, her body pressed to his. Oh, how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves</span>
  </em>
  <span> her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand winds its way into his hair, holding him to her. Unyielding. He growls in response, his own hands trailing down her body. Down her torso, his fingers digging into her flesh as he tries to learn and memorize the way her body feels under his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking finally!” He idly hears Marcus exclaim but he literally doesn’t give a single shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands reach Helen’s waist as her teeth gently graze at his lower lip before sucking it into her mouth again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grips her hard, lifting her from the ground, pulling her body impossibly closer to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And his beautiful girl responds by tightening her arms around him, wrapping those perfect legs around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Good, he thinks, because they aren’t doing this here. Both for their sakes and for Marcus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t stop kissing him as he turns around to head back to their bedroom. Her wet mouth trails over his beard. Her lips press kisses across his face, his neck as he rushes down the hall before slamming the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen unwraps her legs as the door closes and John, reluctantly, gets the hint and lowers her back to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as she stands, however, she doesn’t stop. Instead, she kisses him with renewed vigor. Her grip in his hair remains the same, pulling him down to her height.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to get lost in her kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her warmth, her softness, her taste…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to commit it to memory so he can never forget how she feels. To know what it’s like to kiss someone you love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And no, this isn’t his first time doing this, but it’s like a puzzle is clicking into place. A realization, a moment of </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, this is what it’s supposed to be like</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he kisses the woman he loves.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, I love you, I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to say them but his lips are otherwise preoccupied. Helen controls the kiss now, as his hands rest, one on her waist, the other wrapped around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her tongue circles his and John barely finds the strength to maintain his balance. They each vie for a better angle, deepening the kiss and he wonders, to himself, if she’s as weak in the knees as he is at the contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to swallow her; to consume her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be swallowed and consumed </span>
  <em>
    <span>by </span>
  </em>
  <span>her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is that possible?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s not making assumptions. He doesn’t want to presume that this is going in any specific direction but his heart just about leaps out of his chest when she breaks the kiss. She steps back half a step, placing enough room between them where she can reach down. He watches her tug her t-shirt over her head. She discards it without a care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely has a moment to soak in the sight of her, the dark blue of her bra standing out against her creamy skin, before her arms are back around him. Encasing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen steps backwards and John finds himself kicking off his shoes as she leads him back towards the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She releases his hair only for her hands to drop to his chest. Releasing the buttons on his vest, and his jacket. John’s hand goes for his belt, undoing the clasp to allow him to pull out the ends of his shirt. She pushes the shirt off of his shoulders, taking the vest with it, as she turns so that John is the one walking backwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His legs meet the edge of the bed and she gives him a guiding push. He lets himself sit on the edge of the bed as she has wordlessly directed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can barely process a thought before she has climbed onto his lap, a leg on either side of him. Helen catches his face in her hands and kisses him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John never wants this to end, he thinks, as she rises up on her knees so that she is a head above him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How can she be so gentle while she is being so passionate?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breaks the kiss, only for the sake of oxygen. Helen gasps for breath as she rests her forehead on his, her eyes flickering open to look down at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dark, like a Belarusian forest, her eyes gaze at him with a mix of adoration and curiosity. But she doesn’t ask, instead, drawing her head up so she can kiss his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Affection blooms in him anew and he knows, he knows that he doesn’t deserve this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Hels didn’t believe in deserving or not deserving. And Sofia had been right when she had reminded him that this choice didn’t rest on him. It was Helen’s to make.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses his nose and his heart skips a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words that had been trapped in his head, his heart for months on end. Rattling around, growing louder and louder every time he looked at her or heard her voice. Every time she entered his thoughts, which was all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand slips down to his chin, tipping his head up so that he meets her eyes. “I love you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips descend on his again before he can even process her response. She deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around him to pull herself closer to his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, it clicks. Her words settle into his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John moves quickly, faster than she’s ever seen him. An arm comes around her and Helen is flipped from his lap onto her back. She gasps in surprise as John suddenly appears above her, straddling her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses her back, hard. His teeth graze at her lip before he demands, “Say it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen’s breath hitches, her hand coming around to run over his chest, stopping at his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” She tells him, holding his eyes. Leaving no room for fear or doubt or disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart clenches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one, save her, had ever uttered those words towards him before. Not once in his life had that kind of affection ever been directed his way. Not in any language, by any person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.” She repeats, bowing her head slightly to maintain eye contact as he starts to get lost in his thoughts. Helen pulls him back, like she always does. His life, his love, his anchor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John kisses her again, keeping one arm wrapped around her. Her skin is warm and soft and he wants to touch and kiss every inch of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen presses a soft peck to his lips before her head veers to the side. She kisses his neck, licking at the exposed flesh. Sucking it between her lips and John feels his length aching and straining against his pants. He shifts to alleviate the growing tension. It only serves to remind him that he is atop her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves his hands, trailing her torso. Feeling her curves under his palm. Her skin is soft and smooth, unmarred with battle wounds. Attesting to her innocence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her teeth graze at his neck and his fingers dig into her flesh. He can’t help but hold on to her at the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” He swears and he can feel Helen’s mouth form into a smile. She kisses the spot she had just grazed before kissing his mouth again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She arches her back and moves her hands from his body, reaching under herself to the clasp at her bra. With nimble, practiced fingers, she undoes the latch. John pushes up to give her the room to discard the garment. Helen crawls backwards up the bed and he follows her, entranced by the sight of her breasts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels powerless to stop himself, surging forward and kissing the swell of her chest. He licks at her flesh, dragging his open mouth across the soft mounds until he reaches her hard nipple. He swirls his tongue around the bud, reveling in the way she takes a sharp breath at the contact. She arches her back, pressing her breast further into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks greedily at her, his hand coming up to caress her untouched breast. His fingers do the best they can to mirror his mouth, squeezing her flesh and pinch at her nipple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John!” She gasps his name and it encourages him all the more. He nips at her tit, grazing his teeth along before he switches attentions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses her other breast as he switches hands, groping at her. He feels his own spit in his hand as he rubs her tender flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moans, her head falling back into the mattress. Her hips grind into his and it’s all he can do to not let his eyes roll back into his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even still clothed, he’s harder than he’s ever been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen reaches between them, her hand slipping into his pants, under the band of his boxers. He hisses as her hand brushes against his cock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One hand weaves its way into his hair, pulling him up from her breast so she can kiss him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is she as addicted as he is? He wonders, while her other hand wraps around his length.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hands are impossibly soft as she runs her hand up his cock and gently back down. He feels himself twitch in her grasp and he deepens the kiss. His tongue swirls around hers before he sucks the muscle into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loves her clever tongue. The gentleness that rolls off it in quiet, tender moments or the lashing of the storm in the moments she takes no shit. It tastes as sweet as her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen’s thumb circles the head of his cock and he thrusts into her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is this real? He thinks. Is this actually happening? Or has he finally lost it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spent so long imagining what her touch would feel like, what her kiss would taste like that it couldn’t possibly live up to the expectations in his mind. But, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she was better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pumps him in her hand and John shoots out his own to catch her wrist, to stop her, before it’s over before it begins. Helen whines softly at being stopped but releases him, only to reach for the edge of his pants to push them down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He obliges, discarding them with the rest before hooking his fingers at the top of her leggings and dragging them down her body, along with her panties. He crawls down her body, kissing her chest, her stomach with every inch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can fucking smell her arousal. She kicks them off at the ankles and John parts her thighs, getting lost in the sight that befalls him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, again, he has dreamed of this. Of burying his face between her thighs and driving her wild with his tongue until she is an aching, quivering mess. A myriad of fantasies slip into his head where he has done just that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances up at her, watching the harsh rise and fall of her chest as she tries to regain her breath. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips quirk into a small smile, holding her gaze as he bows his head. John’s tongue slips between her slick folds, tasting her essence. He growls at the tangy flavor, dragging his tongue up to her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hips jolt and John smiles against her. He kisses the soft bundle of nerves before licking her again. And again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s mouth dips to her opening, pressing his tongue inside as her wetness floods his tongue and coats his beard. Just like her very presence, he thinks of how easily it will be to become addicted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her taste and smell. The way she grinds her pussy against him to alleviate the tension he knows must be growing within her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And John has changed his mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>is how he wants to die. Drowning in her pussy as she convulses around him desperately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thighs hold him in place and he would be more than happy to remain here until he either asphyxiates or drowns in her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves his tongue and Helen keens, her high-pitched moan egging him on. He swallows her down and nips at her lower lips before turning his attentions back to her throbbing clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes the bud within his mouth, teasing it with his tongue as a stream of swears and pleas escape Helen’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, John! Fuck! Please… right there. Fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his tongue over the bundle and her please turn into a shriek. He doesn’t ease up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he continues his ministrations, bringing a hand to her opening. He teases her with a finger. He coats it in her slick before sliding the digit inside her. She clamps down around him and John rewards her by sucking her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She cries out again and John slips a second finger into her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen’s leg comes up and around his shoulder. She uses the position to bring her pussy impossibly closer to his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John breaks away long enough to nip at the soft, sensitive flesh of her thigh as his fingers stretch her, preparing her. He turns his hand and curls his fingers up and Helen almost seems to levitate with the way she arches up into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words have lost meaning, slipping into a cacophony of non-sensical begging for his cock. His name on her lips drives him crazy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s torn between tormenting her like this, riding his fingers while she grinds against his tongue, and giving her what she begs for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John decides on mercy, if only for the sake they had both waited long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He removes his fingers from her and sucks them into his own mouth, tasting her again. Addicted to the taste. Crawling back up her body, he rests himself between her thighs and he kisses her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her breath comes out in a stutter as he thrusts his tongue deep into her mouth. He forces her to taste herself on his tongue as he wraps his hand around the back of her head, his fingers becoming lost in her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Next time,” he promises as he breaks the kiss, holding her back from following him with his grip in her hair, “Next time, I’m going to fuck you on my tongue until your throat is too hoarse to scream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to lift her head to kiss him, only for him to yank at her hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John, please!” she rolls her wet core against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please what?” He kisses her jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips twitch as he presses his lips to hers, slanting his mouth to deepen the kiss as he reaches between them. John takes his cock in hand, leading it to her soaking pussy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brings her hips to meet him as he kisses her hard enough to bruise both their lips, and John slips inside of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen whimpers at the contact, again, wrapping her leg around him to take him deeper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John chokes on his breath. He’d waited so long for this, for her. And now she’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. In his bed, naked, beneath him. He’s buried inside her and he wants to savor it but he wants her to come undone around him even more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolls his hips and Helen’s grip on him tightens all the more. He reaches down to her leg still stretched out and brings it up. Eagerly, she wraps it around his hips, like the other one. Clinging to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was already close before they began and, already, she found herself on edge again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes she knows that he’s not letting her go after this. He can’t live without this now that he knows what it feels to be inside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His movements, which had started gently, slowly, pick up a pace. Become more frenzied.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nails rake down his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He responds with a bite to her lip, grazing his teeth along. As they part, Helen curls her head into his shoulder. Her breaths come in quick, sharp increments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mouth opens on his shoulder and she bites down, making John groan. His already frenzied thrusts start to lose control as he can feel pleasure building inside of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen screams, muffled by his shoulder, as she breaks apart. Her nails dig into his back as she thrashes into the mattress, but John doesn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches between them, pressing his thumb on her clit as he continues to thrust. The action prolongs her orgasm and he feels her pussy convulsing around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels dizzy, intoxicated as his own pleasure reaches a new height before he, too, comes undone. With a cry, he feels himself release, spilling inside of her as his hips start to slow, still rocking against hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps for breath as her pussy milks him. He turns to kiss the top of her head, her face still buried in the crook of his neck. Her breaths are still uneven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows as he wraps his arms under her, holding her to him as he rolls to his side, taking her with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen curls into him, holding him just the same. He strokes her hair, still caught up in the stunned disbelief of what had just happened between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It occurs to John that he has lived his entire life with one foot in the grave. Ready for death, even if not expecting it. But as she holds him, clings to him, it breaks over him at once that he is not ready to leave the world behind.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Salvation found in her kiss; heaven is where he is still buried deep within her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can he stay here forever?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels her lips shift into a smile against his neck and he kisses her head again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hels looks up, her eyes twinkling playfully. She reaches a hand to his forehead, brushing back sweat-soaked hair so she can see his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What took you so long?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. With each love I could lose, I was never the same</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to meetmeinthematinee for reviewing and editing for me :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He only leaves the room for the sake of getting water for each of them. They had torn the rest of the covers off the bed, leaving only a sheet for Helen to lay under. John slips on his pajama pants, forgoing the shirt as he leaves the room.</p><p>His cheeks are flushed and he’s grateful that the beard hides most of it as he prepares for whatever comments Marcus is going to have. As he reaches the juncture of the kitchen and the living room, however, the assassin is nowhere to be seen.</p><p>He looks around and spots a piece of paper folded in half with his name on it on the counter.</p><p>John flips it open.</p><p>
  <em> While I’m thrilled you finally got your head on straight, I have no interest in listening to you do the nasty. Figured I’d give you two some privacy. Be back in a few hours.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS. Fuck this up and I will kill you myself.</em>
</p><p>John sets it down, lips twitching into an almost-smile. If he fucked this up, he’d beat Marcus to the punch.</p><p>His thoughts drift back to the woman in his bed. The <em> naked </em> woman in his bed.</p><p>He fills two glasses of water and turns back, unwilling to waste any time. They had wasted enough of that.</p><p>In the midst of their afterglow, they had talked a bit. Kissed some more.</p><p><em> "What changed?" </em>She had asked.</p><p>
  <em> "Had a talk with Sofia. She pointed out I was so concerned with what I thought you deserved; I never took into account what you wanted." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Remind me to send her a thank you card." </em>
</p><p>And then, Helen had pushed him to his back and climbed on top of him.</p><p>Who was he to deny her anything?</p><p>Instead he had watched as she guided his length inside her before she began riding his cock. That sight of her moving, his hands on her hips, her breasts bouncing would forever be etched into his head. And after they had both come undone, Helen had collapsed on top of him.</p><p>Sweating and gasping, his softening cock still inside her. Helen wrapped her arms around him the best she could manage. She kissed his chest before whispering, again, that she loved him.</p><p>And, fuck, but those words did <em> something </em>to him.</p><p>Aside from reducing his refractory period to next to nothing, they made him feel safe.</p><p>A feeling as foreign as love, he'd never really felt safe with anybody. The orphanage had been a disastrous experiment in human suffering. Tarkovsky Theater, under the Director, hadn't been any better. </p><p>It had taken him years to trust Winston, Marcus, and Sofia. But it was different. He didn't trust them with his life so much as understand their own sense of loyalty would keep him from betrayal.</p><p>And that aside, he had never trusted any of them with his heart.</p><p>He's never been so vulnerable as laying naked in bed with her. But he isn't afraid. Despite all assumptions of what it would be like to actually give in, he doesn't feel an ounce of fear.</p><p>He has never felt so at peace in all of his life.</p><p>John pushes open the door and feels his breath leave his lungs at the sight before him.</p><p>The white sheet covers most of her body, tucked around the swell of her breasts. Her dark hair is spread across the pillow, her eyes are closed.</p><p>He’s captivated.</p><p>He’s always captivated by her but, <em> fuck </em>. How could one person be so beautiful, so perfect?</p><p>Her lips stretch into a smile, “What are you doing, John?”</p><p>“Looking at you.”</p><p>Helen’s eyes open, taking him in. Softly, she demands, “Come here.”</p><p>Helpless to resist, he closes the door behind him and follows her. She’s like a siren.</p><p>He sets the glasses on the bedside table before placing a hand on the far side of her. Helen’s hand reaches up, caressing his cheek, as he bends low, bowing his head to brush his lips against hers.</p><p>The thought sticks in his head again: <em> I love you, I love you, I love you </em>.</p><p>And as they break apart, as he rests his head against hers, he remembers he doesn’t have to keep it to himself anymore.</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>She hums, “I love you, too.”</p><p>John kisses her again before reaching for her water. He hands it to her and sits back, giving Helen the space to sit up.</p><p>She takes a sip, “Did Marcus give you a hard time?”</p><p>He smirks, “Marcus decided to disappear for a few hours.”</p><p>“Oh no! I didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable and—”</p><p>John leans forward and cuts her off with a kiss, taking great joy in the fact he can do that now. “He’ll be fine.” John assures her, kissing her head before scooting further up the bed so he can rest against the headboard.</p><p>“Still…”</p><p>Her concern for making Marcus leave is adorable.</p><p>“He’s probably out antiquing or hitting up farm stands. I’m sure he’s having the time of his life.”</p><p>She inclines her head before leaning into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. His fingers trail across her naked back until his arm is wrapped around her.</p><p>It feels so natural to hold her, which is strange, he thinks. He has no experience holding anybody. He can’t quite make sense of it but decides it doesn’t matter.</p><p>The only thing that matters is holding on to this feeling.</p><p>His heart races at the thought.</p><p>He meant what he said to Sofia. He would leave the Underworld, happily, to be with her. If she’d have him.</p><p>John swallows, unsure if he should wait to broach the topic until things have settled between them. He had only just told her he loved her and though he was inexperienced in terms of pillow talk, he was fairly certain you weren’t supposed to bring up serious topics.</p><p>Helen reaches to the side and sets down her glass before snuggling back against him.</p><p>“What are you thinking?” She asks.</p><p>He can’t lie to her, but he pauses. If he told her he’d rather not talk about it yet, she would let it go. But a part of him didn’t want to drop it.</p><p>“Hels…” He blinks, licking his lips, “If… if I could get out, would you wait for me?”</p><p>She seems to take on his meaning immediately. Helen lifts her head from his shoulder, looking up in surprise. Her words are nearly breathless as she asks, “Is that an option?”</p><p>“It’s rare. Most people… they don’t want to leave the Underworld and the privileges it affords. But I think I could do it. After DeLuca is taken care of and the contract is dropped, I could…” he nearly stumbles upon the word, “retire.”</p><p>The word sends a wave of warmth through his body. The thought of spending his nights with Helen rather than stalking the streets of New York was intoxicating. Dinner ready and on the table when she got home from work, pouring her a glass of wine and talking about her day. Evenings spent with Helen curled up watching tv, or her feet in his lap as she reads on the couch or building a fire out on the deck to sit by.</p><p>And when Helen was at work, he could focus on his bookbinding. Or reading. Keeping the house…</p><p>“And you could leave… without consequences?”</p><p>“I don’t think it would be simple.” He admits, “I’m on retainer for a few organizations but I think I could get out of it.”</p><p>Helen licks her lips, almost nervously, “Have you… thought about this? Really thought about this? Not just in a post-sex glow.”</p><p>“Yes.” He says with resounding certainty, reminding her, “I’ve talked about wanting a normal life before.”</p><p>“In the abstract, yes. But that’s very different.”</p><p>She doesn’t sound critical so much as curious, John notes. But the fact she hasn’t answered his question is still burning in his mind.</p><p>“A couple weeks ago,” he says softly, “you asked me what it would look like if I got to change my life how I saw fit.”</p><p>“You were evasive.” She remembers.</p><p>He was. Trapped between lying and making her uncomfortable, he had twisted his words. Prevaricated and told a half-truth to keep her from demolishing his walls.</p><p>“I would have you.” He whispers, aware of the way her breath hitches, “It’s you. It’s always you, Hels. You’re all I want.”</p><p>Her hand reaches up to touch his face. John turns to kiss her palm.</p><p>Helen’s eyes are watery and she swallows, “You know, I’m not always easy to be around. You’re used to me psychoanalyzing you once a week. It would be every day. I can’t turn it off.”</p><p>“You’re already in my head every moment of every day.” He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist, her forearm.</p><p>“I can be manipulative without even trying.”</p><p>John rises to his knees and kisses her shoulder.</p><p>“Manipulate me, then.”</p><p>He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the crook of her neck, reveling at the soft whimper she rewards him with.</p><p>“When I’m stressed, I get really touchy and clingy.”</p><p>“Promise?”</p><p>A small laugh escapes her as he kisses her way up her neck. “I’m serious!” She sets her hands on his shoulders, leaning back, looking serious again. “You’ve been in this life so long… I don’t want you to make a decision you might regret.”</p><p>He won’t, he is certain. But, in a rare moment of emotional clarity, John realizes something: this is about her.</p><p>He thinks back a few nights to when they had stayed up late, confessing their sins to one another. To the words she had said in the moments before she had shared her own past with him.</p><p>
  <em> I am utterly terrified of letting you down. </em>
</p><p>It had broken him then; it breaks him now.</p><p>“Hels, I love you.” He meets her eyes, “And without you… I probably would live my entire life in the Underworld, looking over my shoulder. But I don’t want that. I want you.”</p><p>Helen swallows, scanning his face or any sign of untruth or uncertainty. When she finally responds, it’s a whisper, “You’re sure?”</p><p>His lips twitch, “More sure than I’ve ever been.”</p><p>He leans in, capturing her lips once again, before he lowers her to the bed.</p><p>…</p><p>It comes as a surprise for John that it is not merely the act of sexual congress that satisfies him but the time after the fact. The <em> afterglow </em> as Helen had put it, wherein she cuddled just a little bit closer to him and they spoke in soft, hushed tones.</p><p>The small, satisfied smile on her face was what he was living for at the moment. That, and the way her fingers traced patterns on his chest.</p><p>He catches her hand in his and draws it up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each fingertip.</p><p>She sighs contentedly, leaning back to watch him.</p><p><em> This </em>, he thinks, could be his life.</p><p>He’s tempted to never move again but there are still things to be done. Enemies to be eliminated. And it also occurs to him that Helen had been starting to make dinner when he burst through the door hours ago.</p><p>“You hungry?” He asks.</p><p>“A little.” She admits, “But I don’t want to move.”</p><p>He knows the feeling all too well. With a final kiss to her palm, he slips out from under her arm. “Come on. I’ll make you dinner.”</p><p>“You’re gonna cook for me?” She sounds pleasantly surprised by the realization. Good, he thinks. He’ll cook for her every day if she lets him.</p><p>“Mhmm.” He offers a hand and pulls her to her feet.</p><p>“I feel spoiled.” Helen snatches his white button down from the floor, teasing him with a look like she’s daring him to try to take it from her.</p><p>John just smirks as she slips it on, walking to his suitcase to pull out a plain t-shirt and a clean pair of sweatpants. He watches as Helen carefully does up the buttons that he already is making plans to undo. Later.</p><p>After she’s eaten.</p><p>The shirt falls halfway down her thighs and he tries, he really tries, to get the potential image of it hoisted over her hips while he fucks her against the wall out of his head.</p><p><em> Fuck </em>.</p><p>She slips her underwear back on and glances up at him.</p><p>Her lips twitch, “Food, John.”</p><p>“Hmm?” He meets her eyes.</p><p>“You have to eat food,” she explains, “Before you can eat me.”</p><p>And now he has <em> that </em>image in his head. Helen, leaning against the wall, her leg hoisted over his shoulder as he eats her out. Or, in a chair, her legs spread enticingly as he falls to his knees and buries his face between her thighs…</p><p>She rolls her eyes, “Come on, baby.”</p><p>He flushes at the pet name but follows her. Back down the hall and into the kitchen. Despite his haste in departing, Marcus had saved the vegetables Helen had chopped up and placed them back in the fridge.</p><p>John grabs the vegetables and the chicken and sets them on the counter.</p><p>“Wine?” Helen calls from the living room.</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“Red okay?”</p><p>“Yeah.” He finds the microwave rice cooker under the cabinet and pours in half a cup of rice. Helen comes around the corner carrying two glasses of wine.</p><p>It’s a sight to behold: Helen, in his button-down, hair-mussed, carrying two glasses of wine.</p><p>He puts the cooker in the microwave and hits the button as she reaches him, handing John the slightly less-full glass. John sets it to the side, instead, wrapping an arm around her waist as she laughs, holding her glass up so it doesn’t spill.</p><p>“John!”</p><p>His name, alone, on her lips makes his heart swell.</p><p>It’s so different than the way anyone else says his name.</p><p>He presses half a dozen kisses to her face while she laughs, squirming in his arms. With a final kiss to her lips, he lets her go.</p><p>Helen smirks, slipping back to lean against the opposite counter as John forces himself to get back to work. He keeps it simple with a chicken and vegetable stir-fry.</p><p>“Gotta say, you look pretty good cooking dinner.”</p><p>He can’t help the smile as he glances over his shoulder, “Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Mhmm.” Helen takes a sip of her wine, “I’m really into the whole housewife thing you got going on.” John rolls his eyes but that just eggs her on. “I’m serious. Make me dinner. Maybe a back rub. I’ll fuck you for ten minutes, then roll over and go to sleep.”</p><p>He snorts at that, before turning to walk over to her. She bites her lip as he reaches for her, hands digging into her sides before he hoists her up and sets her on the counter almost effortlessly.</p><p>“Just ten minutes?” He teases back.</p><p>“Maybe a bit longer. If you’re good.”</p><p>“Sweetheart, I can be <em> very </em> good.”</p><p>Helen reaches around, cupping the back of his head, drawing him in for a kiss. They’re nearly the same height like this and she takes full advantage of the fact that neither one of them are craning their heads.</p><p>A part of her is still surprised that it isn’t awkward. New relationships were supposed to be awkward, although she also considers that this isn’t a typical new relationship. Their foundation had been laid months ago. Their friendship built upon that bedrock, tested through implicit trust and unwavering devotion.</p><p>And while she felt like she should, she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty for how they got here. Especially when her misdeed was barely a tremor of a wave in the ocean of the Underworld.</p><p>She fell in love with her client; John killed people for a living.</p><p>They would figure the rest out, together.</p><p>Helen rests her head against his with a gentle sigh, overwhelmingly content.</p><p>With a final peck on the lips, John turns back to their dinner as Helen watches.</p><p>Transferable skills, she thinks, as he quickly dices up chicken. His skill with a knife was unparalleled. He adds it to the skillet before finishing the vegetables she had been in the middle of when he came home.</p><p>She’s more than happy to sit back, drinking her wine, watching him work.</p><p> He’s efficient, quickly pulling together a meal which they eat on the couch, finally taking a moment to catch up on their day. His discussion with Sofia that had led him, as Helen so kindly put it, to getting his head out of his ass. The hours Helen had spent analyzing Santino before he had been picked up and skirted away to the spa.</p><p>By the time they hear the sound of tires on gravel, they’re already finished eating, bowls set on the coffee table as Helen sits perched upon his lap, an arm around his shoulders and his wrapped around hers.</p><p>The door opens slowly, hesitantly and Helen lets out a little laugh as Marcus calls loudly, “Is everybody decent?”</p><p>She resists the urge to quip <em> not morally </em>, instead taking pity on the assassin who had kindly disappeared to allow them privacy, “Yes. It’s safe to come in.”</p><p>They hear the door shut and Marcus rounds the corner, hand a few inches away from his face in case he needs to shield his eyes.</p><p>John feels his cheeks heating up and, again, is grateful that his flush is mostly covered by the beard.</p><p>“Glad you two finally got your shit sorted.” Marcus says, walking around before falling to sit in his chosen chair, “You came pretty close to losing her to another today.”</p><p>John blinks, unsure of what he means. Other than Marcus, Santino was the only other man Helen would have seen and he knew her well enough to know she would <em> never </em>go for that type.</p><p>“Oh, hush.” Helen says with a grin, “It was light flirting at best.”</p><p>Marcus shakes his head, “Sweetheart, I don’t understand a lick of ASL, but that wasn’t <em> light </em> flirting.”</p><p>John blinks again, “<em> Ares? </em>” he asks in surprise.</p><p>Helen hums, “If I were fifteen years younger, she might have given you a run for your money.”</p><p>He’s not quite sure how to process that, shaking his head. He should have fucking guessed Santino’s bodyguard would have no qualms hitting on John Wick’s woman. Hell, it probably made it all the more fun for her.</p><p>“I didn’t know you could sign.” John comments.</p><p>“Back when I did family counseling, I had several families with deaf kids.”</p><p>“All I know was there was a blur of hands and Santino turned red as a tomato watching whatever the two of you were saying.”</p><p>“She’s fucking hilarious.”</p><p>“Do I want to know?” John asks.</p><p>“Probably not,” Helen’s spare hand trails down his chest, “But I can give you the highlights of some of her suggestions later.”</p><p>“Agh,” Marcus says, putting up a hand for her to stop, “I take it back. Go back to pining. I’ll gladly take that over suggestive flirting any day.”</p><p>“Gotta get used to it.” Helen says. She kisses his cheek once before climbing out of his lap, taking her wine glass from the table and walking over to the liquor cabinet. She grabs an empty glass and raises it towards Marcus in offering.</p><p>Marcus shrugs but nods, before turning to look at John, “Sofia knock some sense into you?”</p><p>“Figuratively speaking.”</p><p>“The fact that you have to distinguish that it was figurative blows my mind.” Helen says as she pours herself a hearty second glass.</p><p>“Eh, Sof is great. But she’s got a mean left hook. And a right hook.”</p><p>“And no sense of self-preservation.” John adds.</p><p>“Fun.”</p><p>“Everything went alright with Isabella, though?”</p><p>Nodding, John says, “Sofia’s got her in lockdown in a motel just outside the city. If all goes well, we won’t even need her but if DeLuca tries anything…” They still had their leverage.</p><p>Helen hands Marcus his glass before she takes a seat next to John. “How likely to do you think that is?”</p><p>“DeLuca’s gotta be planning on something. The moment the contract is lifted, he’s got to know he’s dead meat.”</p><p>John shakes his head, “He wants a marker.”</p><p>“From you?” The surprise in Marcus’s voice is evident.</p><p>“I’m not happy with it, but he won’t be able to use it. It’s a catch-22.”</p><p>“What’s a marker?” Helen asks.</p><p>John thinks of how to best explain it, “It’s a promise for a future favor. One sealed by blood.”</p><p>“DeLuca’s making you promise him a favor?”</p><p>“Not exactly. There are stipulations associated. Namely, you can’t kill the bearer of your marker.” John says, “So if he were to use the marker, I would be able to kill him.”</p><p>She shakes her head, “The Underworld really is built on mutually assured destruction.”</p><p>“It’s the only way to make killers play nice.” Marcus quips. “There have to be rules and strict consequences.”</p><p>Helen sits back, considering the implications. Looking for loopholes. “<em> You </em> can’t kill him because you’ll have given him the marker. Could you have someone else kill him?”</p><p>“Conspiring to kill someone with your marker brings the same consequences.” John explains.</p><p>“But you haven’t given him the marker yet. So, could you conspire to kill him now?”</p><p>He has to resist the urge to smirk at just how fucking adorable she is trying to make sense of their bizarre world.</p><p>John shakes his head, “Intent has been expressed to give him a marker, so no. If Marcus were to leave this conversation and go kill DeLuca, someone could claim that I influenced it. It’s called <em> ‘Willful Interference’ </em>. It’s not quite a death sentence but you can still get in a lot of trouble with the High Table for purposefully interfering with another’s marker.”</p><p>She nods slowly, thoughtfully. “I could kill him.”</p><p>Marcus chokes on his wine and even John is taken aback at her statement.</p><p>It takes John a moment to recover. “<em> Absolutely not. </em>”</p><p>“Wait a minute…” Marcus says, rubbing his chest, “That’s actually brilliant. Helen isn’t bound by the High Table.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Just consi—”</p><p>“No!” John says again, looking between them incredulously, “This isn’t up for discussion.”</p><p>Helen rolls her eyes but drops it. It’s far too easy, John thinks, but he’s not going to address it until they head back to New York.</p><p>“I don’t like the idea of you going in to face him alone.” Helen comments, “Promise of a marker or not. DeLuca’s sneaky. And no offense, baby, but picking up social cues is not your strong point.”</p><p>“Full offense, John. She’s right.” Marcus adds. Helen shoots him a look and the older assassin shuts up. “Could you leave Isabella tied up and take Sof with you?”</p><p>“I think that’s unnecessary,” John shakes his head, “I’m fine with social cues.”</p><p>Helen makes a face, like she’s trying to be polite, “You’re really not. And that’s not a judgment, but you don’t always pick up on things.”</p><p>John rolls his eyes, “I’ve made it this far.”</p><p>“Barely.” Marcus mutters.</p><p>“I get that you want to handle this on your own, but I really think Sofia should go with you.”</p><p>“You think I’m that bad at picking up on social cues?” John asks, a little offended. No, he wasn’t a political person by nature, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t piece shit together. And he was an expert at picking up behavioral cues from those around him, particularly other killers.</p><p>Helen sighs, “John, do you remember the day we met?”</p><p>“Of course.” He would never forget it.</p><p>“I bought you a coffee and gave you my cell number.”</p><p>John nods once.</p><p>“Oh, boy.” Marcus says, looking at John almost amused.</p><p>“I bought you a coffee,” she repeats, “And gave you my cell number.”</p><p>John nods, “Yes. And I called you.”</p><p>“Mhmm. You called my office and set up an appointment.”</p><p>Again, John nods.</p><p>“This is going to be harder than I thought.” Helen says setting down her glass of wine. Marcus grins at her.</p><p>“Believe me, sweetheart, it’s harder to <em> watch </em>.”</p><p>“I don’t understand.” John blinks.</p><p>“Yeah, I got that.” Helen says, and she tries again, gesturing with her hand, “I wrote my <em> personal cell phone </em>number on the back of my card.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Her shoulders sink, making John wary. She looks to Marcus, who shakes his head, “This is getting painful.”</p><p>“Yeah,” she mutters before looking back to John and emphasizing, “I gave you my personal number and bought you a coffee.”</p><p>“This has been established.”</p><p>Marcus finally takes pity on Helen’s feeble attempts to get John to connect the dots and says, “For fucks’ sake, man, she was <em> hitting </em>on you.”</p><p>John makes a face and shakes his head, “No, she wasn’t.”</p><p>Helen arches a brow and stares at John intently.</p><p>“No, you weren’t.” John says, suddenly with less certainty.</p><p>She nods.</p><p>“Oh, god. You were hitting on me?”</p><p>“The penny drops.” Mumbles Marcus.</p><p>“Yes. And then you called my work line and I figured I had misread things and you just wanted a therapist. I mean, no offense, but after sitting with you for twenty minutes, it was clear you needed someone to talk to.”</p><p>“You were hitting on me.” John repeats completely dumbfounded.</p><p>“Took me months to realize that you had a thing for me,” she says, glancing to Marcus in amusement before turning back to John, “but by then, you were already my client.”</p><p>“Jesus.” John sits, blinking rapidly.</p><p>“Think he needs a minute.” Marcus says before finishing his glass of wine. “And I’m making the executive decision. Take Sofia. Find somebody at the Continental to watch Isabella.”</p><p>He finds himself nodding in agreement, still a little dazed by the sudden realization that he could have had her seven months ago. All this could have been avoided, but then, he thinks, they might not have ever reached this point.</p><p>Would he have been able to be honest with her in a different setting? To open up and tell her the truth about who he was and what he did?</p><p>The line between them, which had finally been demolished, was what helped him when he decided to risk it all and tell her the truth. The boundary protected his heart even as he bared his soul, until he was ready for the rest.</p><p>He couldn’t be certain that, without it, he would have ever revealed his hand to her.</p><p>John glances over to the woman in question. Her teeth are biting into her lower lip bashfully. Shaking his head, he drapes his arm over the back of the couch and Helen scooches closer, leaning into his side. He kisses her head.</p><p>“Never thought to bring that up in seven months?” He asks.</p><p>She shrugs, reaching up to the hand draped around her. “Wasn’t relevant. I was trying to maintain some semblance of professional boundaries.”</p><p>He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, “And how’d that work for you?”</p><p>“All truth is subjective. While I’m feeling pretty great, the American Counseling Association would definitely frown upon my actions of late.”</p><p>John snorts, pulling her closer so he can kiss her head.</p><p>“They’d probably also frown on how many people John’s killed.” Marcus adds.</p><p>“Oh, definitely. Intent to kill is a big one for them. Knowing he’s killing people on a weekly, sometimes daily basis, would <em> definitely </em>get me in more trouble than sleeping with him.”</p><p>Marcus smirks, “Glad to know you’ve given it thought.”</p><p>Helen just smiles, resting her head against John’s shoulder. She closes her eyes for a moment, content to just breathe John in.</p><p>It had been a good day. A <em> wonderful </em> day. But a long one. An exhausting emotionally charged day. One she hadn’t been fully prepared for, especially when John had left for the day.</p><p>But he had come back.</p><p>And they were still figuring things out. The revelation that John wanted to leave the Underworld had staggered her but filled her with excitement and anticipation all the same. They still needed to talk, but they knew where they both stood now. Together.</p><p>She opens her eyes and presses a kiss to his collarbone.</p><p>He strokes her hair, lovingly.</p><p>Had anything ever felt so right?</p><p>“You look tired.” His voice is soft and warm.</p><p>“Wonder why that would be.” She smirks when the small visible part of his cheek flushes pink.</p><p>“Gross.” Marcus comments but they both ignore him.</p><p>John slips his free hand under her legs, drawing her onto his lap before he stands, lifting her with him. She laughs, softly, at the ease which he picks her up.</p><p>“Goodnight, Marcus.” She says as John nods his own goodbye.</p><p>“Goodnight, sweetheart.”</p><p>John carries her back down the hall, to their bedroom. He closes the door behind them and Helen smirks and warns, “Careful, John. Keep carrying me everywhere and I might get used to it.”</p><p>“Good.” He tells her, kissing her head before laying her down on her side of the bed. “Get used to it.”</p><p>Her own cheeks flush and he feels momentarily victorious. <em> This </em>impressed her? He hadn’t begun to try.</p><p>The world would be hers.</p><p>He’d expand the library in his house to make room for her books. He’d make her dinner every night and breakfast each morning. Bring her lunch when she’s working. Take her away on the weekends. She loved the ocean, he knew. He’d buy a house somewhere by the sea for them to escape to on vacations.</p><p>Or bring her back here, where they first acted upon their feelings.</p><p>Take her back to the café where they met, only this time, he won’t leave without a kiss.</p><p>He’ll do whatever she wants so long as she looks at him the way she is right now.</p><p>He might never deserve her, but he’ll do whatever it takes for her never to regret it. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Watch it still live in roofs Be consumed by the flames</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again @meetmeinthematinee for editing and reviewing this for me! &lt;3 :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>John wakes, as he has grown accustomed to, tangled with Helen. But now, their farce has come to an end. No longer are they staring at each other from opposite sides of their line in the sand. The line was gone. As were their clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the first step towards keeping Helen like this, in his arms and in his bed, was to finish things with DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One way or another, it would end tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With one last kiss to her head, John slips from bed. Trepidation fills him at the thought of what is to come. A single misstep, and it could be Helen’s life on the line. But he won’t let it come to that, he assures himself as he makes his way to the shower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was still early and he wanted to leave as soon as possible. To complete his task, to return to her as soon as he could manage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He showers quickly, not wanting to waste time. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he crosses the hall and slips back into their room. His suit is hanging from the curtain rod, where he had left it the night before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen rolls over as he takes it down, eyes blinking open slowly.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips on his boxers and pants, starting to dress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You shower?" She asks, voice still heavy from sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Should have woken me up. Coulda scrubbed your back."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, oh, that's a line of thought he really can't be pursuing at the moment. But it is certainly one he'll come back to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Later." He promises, slipping his shirt on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Are you leaving already?" Helen sits up, pulling the blankets with her as she rests, sleepily, against the headboard. She rubs her eyes, stifling a yawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, walking over to the bed as he slips the last of his buttons. "The sooner I go, the sooner this is finished. The sooner you're safe."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen gives him a small half-smile, reaching out for his hand. He gives it to her, leaning down while drawing her hand up. He presses a kiss to her knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The sooner you come back." She sighs, softly, "I miss you already."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his lips twitch. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes her into his arms and kisses her head. "I love you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her arms tighten around him, "I love you too." She inhales the warm scent of his body wash, "Be careful out there. You gotta come home to me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I will."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up and John bends, gently brushing his lips to hers. Helen holds his hand until he steps out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs his vest and suit jacket as he leaves, forcing himself to leave her side with a mental promise of </span>
  <em>
    <span>not forever</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus is awake, quietly watching the news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Leaving?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus nods back and looks away, a smirk on his lips, "You might want to check and see if your girlfriend has concealer before you go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John blinks. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because your neck looks like you've been attacked by a vampire.” He shakes his head, “Baba Yaga is going into battle with hickeys. What I wouldn’t give for a camera right about now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his cheeks heat up even as he rolls his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus chuckles at his reaction. “Unbelievable. Who would have guessed the Boogeyman’s kryptonite was going to be a tiny brunette therapist?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, John concurred. He had never seen her coming, never could have predicted what they would become.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be careful.” Marcus tells him, gesturing with his head down the hall, “You have somebody to come home to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods again, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that promise, he leaves for New York. The excruciating drive away stretches on and he distracts himself with the radio as he makes his way to the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he hits the city lines, he follows his ritual and turns his phone back on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At a stop light, he scans the messages. There are two from Sofia but what catches his attention is a familiar number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One he memorized a week ago when he received the message </span>
  <em>
    <span>DeLuca of Syndicate. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had still been searching for Helen, in the midst of losing his mind after meeting dead end after dead end. Until the message came in that gave him the first ray of hope in days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nick Russo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens it first, before the messages from Sofia.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Unknown: Please call me. Re: HK</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a honking from behind him and he realizes the light has turned green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John hits the call button as he drives off. He wasn’t certain he could trust anybody related to the Syndicate, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Helen </span>
  </em>
  <span>trusted him. Had asked John not to kill the kid. Him or the other boy who had been there that day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H-hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is Wick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi. Hi, Mister Wick. Um, thank you for calling… me. Calling me back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his eyes rolling, “Relax, kid. She asked me not to kill you. So, I won’t. Unless you give me a reason to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can literally hear the sigh of relief that falls from Nick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Th-thank you. I like Helen. And I don’t want anything to happen to her, so I reached out to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Concerning, John thinks. He feels his heart constrict.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca. He’s planning a double-cross. He already has his entire building on lockdown for whenever you show up. He’s going to meet with you, but I overheard one of his lieutenants saying that you weren’t going to leave the building alive. And then he said…” The kid pauses, “These aren’t my words, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said that once the contract drops, your ‘bitch’ will come out of hiding. And DeLuca’s going to kill her, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his blood heating. That stupid fucking mafiaso actually thought he could make more threats towards Helen and he’d just get away with it? Marker or not, John would find a way to put him in the ground. He’d make his death slow, painful. A thousand cuts would just be the start…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Focus</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Revenge would only keep him from Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” He asks, pulling himself back to center, “If I’m gone, why bother to target her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Word got out about what she said to him, about his ‘mommy issues.’” There’s a pause, “It’s a respect thing, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head. He was more than familiar with mafiosos and mobsters and their complicated relationship with </span>
  <em>
    <span>respect</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He didn’t understand their fascination with taking something that was supposed to, by nature, be earned. But then, there was a lot about politics that he didn’t understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A thought occurs to him, “Do you know if he’s talked to his mother at all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca? I don’t think so. He’s been avoiding her the last week. Ever since Helen called him out. Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John exhales. Good. That was good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That meant they still had their ace in the hole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel about earning a couple coins?” John asks the kid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>……..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He calls Sofia next, to update her on the plan. Nick would be coming to meet her at the motel to take over the watch of Isabella DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By warning John Wick of DeLuca’s plan, Nick had preemptively burned his bridges with the Syndicate. And while no one knew of his treachery yet, they would find out eventually. Like Helen had told him before, nothing stays secret forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having John Wick’s name associated with his, however, would offer him protection and status. It was as good as an endorsement in the Underworld. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Nick had been more than willing to help. For Helen, he had offered to help for free. John insisted upon the coins and Nick, most likely out of fear, had agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he was settled at the motel, Sofia would meet John in the city to meet with DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By then, John would be done with Lorenzo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drives to Lorenzo’s mistress’s building, parking a few streets away. While Lorenzo had agreed to fake his death, his men were not in on the plan. And they likely had heard that Gianna and Santino D’Antonio had mysteriously turned up dead, at the hands of the Boogeyman. Lo Spectro.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They would be on guard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While John is an expert at sneaking and staying out of sight, it’s all too easy to get into the building. He avoids the cameras and the men, sneaking floor by floor. It takes less than an hour from the time John parks his car until the moment he reaches the thirtieth-floor penthouse. A dozen or so guards were incapacitated and hidden so they would not be found until they awoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo sighs when he sees him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had hoped,” the old man says in his mother tongue, “That at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> of my men would have been able to alert me to your presence. I suppose this is the reason I keep you on retainer.” He sighs, asking seriously, “How many families will I have to alert?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None, signor.” John says, “I left them all breathing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo arches an eyebrow, “An act of mercy from the Boogeyman. Not something many have seen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John was merciful more often than anyone knew. Truthfully, most people who survived an encounter with the Boogeyman weren’t eager to share how badly they had fucked up to be left as his mercy. John was fine with that. He offered life; his reputation remained intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate your willingness to assist in this matter.” John is careful to avoid the term </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span> in any language. It indicates weakness, which he can’t afford. Especially not when he has one last request for the head of the Camorra.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I look forward to hearing your testimony when I bring the matter to the High Table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shall give it, gladly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not as glad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, John thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>as I would be to just kill the bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, John, how is your lady? I have heard her name a hundred times this week, yet you never thought to mention her in all the time we have known each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I keep my personal affairs private.” A simple, yet honest answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed, you do. Have you given thought to what you will do now that the world knows of her?” Lorenzo leads John over to a bar in the corner of the room. “Bourbon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” John sits at a stool as Lorenzo pours him a drink. He should not be impressed, he thinks, but Lorenzo is so very different from both his children that it sometimes surprises John when he does something for himself rather than calling on a guard or a servant. Even something as simple as pouring a drink. “And I have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo hums, handing him a glass as he pours himself a glass of wine. “Will you make me ask again, John?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks down at his drink before looking up to Lorenzo, “I have every intention of marrying her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are strange on his tongue. Admittedly, the first time he has said it out loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he knows, he knows that they have far to go before they get to that point. He has barely been able to acknowledge how much he loves her, how much she means to him. But now that he has, other fantasies are taking its place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her sleeping in his bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Their </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A simple platinum ring finding a permanent home on her finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A promise of forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All within sight, but still just out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations.” Lorenzo says and he looks taken aback at the declaration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re not in order quite yet.” John takes a long sip of the bourbon, appreciating Lorenzo’s expensive tastes. “There are things that need to be taken care of first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mateo will burn for what he has done, believe me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And John will forever be grateful for that. But it isn’t entirely what he means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca is a nuisance.” John says carefully, taking another sip of his drink. And fuck, he hates politics but at least he’s getting the hang of it. Underplaying your problems, overplaying your strengths. He hadn’t had enough of a childhood to ever master the art of </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretend</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he’s as close as he’s ever been to treating the Underworld like a game. “But after tonight, I doubt he’ll be much of a concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what do you mean?” In that moment, John can almost see where Santino gets his flare for the dramatics and insatiable curiosity for the woes of others.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finishing his drink, John sets the glass on the table and makes eye contact with Lorenzo. He will not be misread or doubted in this moment. “I plan to retire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if his comment on marriage had surprised Lorenzo, this brings the mafioso to shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods once, keeping his face blank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve given this world years. I appreciate what it’s done for me. But I have no ambition to move up. Nor do I feel any sort of… emotional attachment to what I do. I’ve plateaued, so to speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the money?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, “I’ve accumulated a great deal. And I’ve spent very little. I have enough money to live in luxury for several lifetimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo seems to be struck momentarily speechless. His lips move as if he is about to speak but no sound comes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes pity on him and continues, “And this week, I had the woman I love taken from me, held hostage. Her name exposed to every enemy I have ever had, her life placed on the line. All the money and power that I have spent a lifetime accumulating don’t seem to mean anything. Every day, I get a new list of people looking for her.” He shakes his head, “I kill them. More come. And that’s how this world works. And that’s not what I want anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she ask you to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never.” John shakes his head, because that’s something he needs to make clear and will have to make clear again and again as he starts to transition out of the Underworld, “If I wanted to stay, Helen wouldn’t question it. She has never, once, tried to push me one way or the other. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> decision. And it’s one I make because I want my life to be different.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, he is met with silence. Lorenzo drinks his wine, thoughtfully. Conscientiously. John knows from experience that he is weighing the odds, searching for the angle that could best benefit him and his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he looks back to John. “And your contract? You have one to the Camorra, another to the Russians.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am more than willing to buy it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo smirks at that, nodding to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, he says, “You have never done anything in halves. I suppose it makes sense, then, that Lo Spectro is unable to do anything but love wholly and completely.” He pauses, like he is considering something, then nods. “I’ll release you from your contract. The paperwork will be drawn up once you testify against DeLuca.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John blinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been prepared for a negotiation. Demands to be made in exchange for the contract or an insistence that John see it through until it was up for review.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost too easy and he asks, before he can stop himself, “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Consider it an early wedding present.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John finds himself speechless, unsure of what to say. Or if he can really believe that Lorenzo D’Antonio would really let him walk away just like that. But the mafioso looks serious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve known you for years, John.” He says at the stunned expression on Baba Yaga’s face, “Once you set your mind to something, you will see it through. If you are to leave the Underworld, I would like us to part as friends. For both our sakes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John bows his head in gratitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is certain his conversation with the Tarasov’s will not go nearly as smoothly but he will take this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will remember this.” He promises and it’s as good as a verbal thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo waves a hand. “Enough of this.” The old man cracks a smile, “How would you like to kill me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>……..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Lorenzo’s death has been staged, the photo evidence taken, John sneaks out just as he had come in. Slowly, carefully, floor by floor. Without a single person catching a glimpse of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, Lorenzo’s mistress will </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘raise the alarm</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ that Lorenzo D’Antonio is dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rumors will say he was killed by John Wick’s hand. The rumors will reach DeLuca and the pictures will become only a formality. In his pocket is Lorenzo’s family signet ring. Lorenzo had given it to him, explicitly on loan, as further proof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca would know that Lorenzo would never willingly part with the ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The contract will be dropped. And the moment DeLuca tries anything, Sofia will have a live feed video streaming straight to her phone of Isabella. And, if worse came to worst, he and Sofia had definitely gotten themselves out of worse jams than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The High Table would be alerted about Lorenzo’s death, but John hoped that all this could be handled before they sent anyone after him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia is waiting for him when he reaches the park near DeLuca’s apartment building. She’s left behind the inconspicuous clothes at the motel, it would seem. She’d switched it for leather pants and a tight black top. John will never understand how she is able to move with such ease in those pants, but he’s never understood how Perkins can fight in four inch heels, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get your shit sorted?” Sofia asks him as he gets out of the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you did.” She reaches up, grabbing his jaw, jerking his head up so she can see his neck, “Ew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smacks her hand aside, rolling his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you spend all night necking? What is this? High School?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never went. Missed that phase.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like you more than made up for it.” Sofia smirks, shaking her head. “You happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Deliriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” She looks away, “You really leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once this is all sorted, and my affairs are settled. Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This could be our last mission together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods again, having realized the same thing on his drive back to New York that morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For twenty some odd years they had worked together. They’d run missions, been each other’s backup, used each other as a sounding board on countless occasions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had been the godfather of her daughter, Amara. One of the few people in the world to know of her existence. And when Sofia made the difficult choice to give her daughter up to protect her, John had been the one she called to find her a safe home. Far away. Where she could be safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since she moved to Africa, the cases they worked together were few and far between. But they still talked. Still used each other as sounding boards, each willing to drop everything to help their friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to hate you forever.” Sofia says and John laughs, softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s going to do the impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a part of him wants to ask, is desperate to know, why Sofia didn’t leave the Underworld for the sake of her daughter. Why she didn’t run with Amara rather than part with her, maybe forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The idea of losing Helen makes him sick, makes him feel like his skin is crawling and his heart is aching and that’s only at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How had she done it? He wonders, but he can’t ask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows Sofia has her reasons and it’s none of his business. He lets it go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll miss you too.” He says instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, “Don’t get soft on me, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t dream of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stare out at the park, idly watching people run or bike by. A few couples have settled on the grass for lunch. A dog runs free, off leash, chasing a ball.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A world of normality that’s so foreign to the both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you going to do?” Sofia asks, sparing him a brief glance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, still unsure. With a small smile, thinking back to the night before, “Helen told me I’d make a good housewife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia bursts out laughing, “Christ, this girl’s really about to get the Boogeyman domesticated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that really so hard to picture?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen you use stationary to kill someone. Seen you beat someone over the head with a frying pan. Seen you </span>
  <em>
    <span>smash </span>
  </em>
  <span>a coffee pot and use the glass to gouge someone’s eyes out. Yeah, picturing you playing domestic is a bit difficult.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inclines his head. It’s a damn fair point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia sighs and makes eye contact with him. “I really am happy for you, John. Just… just do me one favor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, eyes narrowing as he waits for her request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fuck it up. When you leave this world…” and there is pain in her eyes that he’s never seen before, “don’t look back. Don’t think back. Don’t fucking come back. If you pull this off, get out and stay out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s harsh but he gets where it’s coming from.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t fuck this up.” He promises and she looks away, nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” She slips off the hood of the car, gracefully landing on her feet. “Then let’s get this shit over with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So fucking close to the end of it all, John thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DeLuca’s got a no weapons’ policy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia arches a brow, “He really thinks that’ll make a difference?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not exactly the brains of the operation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll say. That kid, Nick, said DeLuca’s got no idea his mom’s even missing. Where’d you find him, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head in disbelief of the situation as he admits, “He was one of the guards DeLuca put on Helen after he kidnapped her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia’s head swings around, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John holds up his hands in surrender, “Helen told me I couldn’t kill him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re fucking whipped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I supposed to be offended by that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes, “Unbelievable. You trust that kid to watch Isabella and not report back to DeLuca?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helen trusts him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. So, we’re going on the judgement of a woman who, no offense, thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> a good life choice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins, opening his trunk to find the spare marker he knew was rolling around somewhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop smiling. It makes me uncomfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips twitch but he buries the smile, focusing instead on the task at hand. They’re about to walk headfirst into a trap. He can save the other thoughts for later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll have a lifetime to ruminate on them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have everything?” John asks as he pockets the marker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls a cell phone out of each pocket. “Ready. You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shows her the pictures saved on his phone. He had deleted the excess, leaving two pictures of each Santino, Gianna, and Lorenzo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rumors should help cinch everything into place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think his mom will be enough to get us out the doors alive?” Sofia asks as John slams the trunk closed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “He might not want to admit it, but he needs his mom to overtake the Camorra. She was born into that world. She knows the ins and outs.” He leaves out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and it’s all we have</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Syndicate operated out of a converted factory on the border of Brooklyn and Queens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with their leverage, it felt a little bit like heading into the lion’s den. He’d had shit odds before, but John wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being outnumbered a couple hundred to two. Especially when they would be searched at the door for weapons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They take his car. It’s more recognizable, which was a good thing when it came to putting the fear of god into people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re searched at the door before being taken up to the elevator that leads to DeLuca’s office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has to focus on his breathing to control the anticipation and anxiety that builds within him. At least, he thinks, DeLuca was planning to drop Helen’s contract. Even if it was only so she came out of hiding so he could kill her himself, but John pushes that thought down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He repeats to himself that he can’t kill Mateo DeLuca. From the elevator to the office, he repeats the message, trying to ingrain it in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca would get what was coming to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The empty marker, which he had taken from his trunk, weighs heavily in his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mafioso is sitting at his desk when they are brought in. He’s expecting John but his eyes go past him to Sofia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mister Wick. You brought a friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sofia Al-Azwar.” John introduces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mateo stands and walks around the desk, offering his hand. “Charmed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia accepts a handshake. John resists the urge to smirk, having experienced first-hand a handshake from Sofia. DeLuca was experiencing his bones being crushed together, all while trying to maintain a pleasant smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Al-Azwar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just assisting an old friend.” She says, finally releasing his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Says DeLuca, turning his attention to John, “I’ve heard you fulfilled your end of the bargain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wordlessly, John reaches for his phone. He unlocks it and brings up the pictures before holding it on display for DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mafioso watches as John scrolls through the pictures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did they suffer?” He asks, his lips twitching into a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t ask for them to suffer.” John says, indifferently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca hums at that, “I suppose the Boogeyman is nothing if not efficient.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca snatches it, quickly. “Straight from Lorenzo D’Antonio. How wonderful.” He hums to himself, “Well, let’s get this over with. Before the High Table comes looking for you. You have the marker?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John reaches into one of the inner pockets of his suit jacket for the heavy chamber. He clicks it open, watching as the sharp metal pokes out for him to prick himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Make the call.” He says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca frowns at the order, but takes his phone, dialing administration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Accounts payable.” He requests, giving his verification code as John places his thumb over the metal. He presses it down, piercing the skin. He waits for the blood to pool and presses his print to the giver side of the marker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can count on one hand the time’s he’s ever done this. He wasn’t a fan but, he reminds himself, it would soon be over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shoots a glance at Sofia as he listens to DeLuca recant the contract. She has her phone in hand, waiting for a confirmation of the contract being pulled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the line, he can hear the Administrative Representative say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Confirmed. Contract for Helen Kingston has been withdrawn.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to sigh with relief, but he withholds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, he looks to his friend. It’s a long, excruciating moment, but Sofia shifts her gaze towards John and gives him a nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Helen is safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A weight lifts from his shoulders. He wants to punch the air and DeLuca, but perhaps not in that order. God, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>over</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over, he thinks. But not done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hands DeLuca the marker. The mafioso regards it with interest. The weighted metal case is deceptively heavy and awkward to hold while open. He examines John’s bloody print with a small smirk before he closes it with a soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad we were able to work this out.” DeLuca says, looking just beyond them. “However,” and there it was. Double-crossing son of a bitch. There are footsteps down the hall… more guards placing themselves in position? As if it would matter, even if they didn’t have leverage. “I can’t help but worry that, with the High Table already pursuing you for killing Lorenzo, you might just forgo the rules of the marker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t deny that I’ve thought about it.” John admits, “But, truthfully, I have no intention to kill you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have to forgive me, Mister Wick, if I do not believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps grow closer and at least two men stand in the door behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to tell your men to stand down.” John says, holding DeLuca’s gaze even as he hears the familiar click of a pistol being cocked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, am I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are. Sofia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia pulls out her phone. She unlocks it and offers it to DeLuca. He narrows his eyes but accepts, turning it to see the screen. He freezes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At once, DeLuca’s breathing changes, his face contorting in anger as he recognizes his mother on the screen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother.” John says, “And an associate of mine. With orders to execute her at two, should he not hear from me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t dare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You took the woman I love from her bed.” His voice darkens, as he glares at DeLuca, “Held her hostage. Threatened her life. Exposed her to the Underworld, to my enemies. Ask yourself again what I would and wouldn’t dare to do. Call off your guards. Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca stands still for a moment, his heavy, angry breathing the only sound in an otherwise silent abyss. Finally, he nods, barking an order to his men.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t need to turn to know they’re leaving. The footsteps recede down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks to Sofia. She nods, wordlessly checking the hall for stragglers or anyone else left behind. Finding no one, she closes the doors and locks them in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still have the marker,” DeLuca says, “You cannot—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to kill you.” John interrupts, rolling his eyes, “I just want to talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John walks over to DeLuca’s liquor cabinet. If mafioso's and mob bosses had one thing in common, it was their penitent towards alcoholism. John examines the labels, unimpressed by DeLuca’s personal collection. “It took me a while to figure out why you chose </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?” He can hear a touch of fear creeping into DeLuca’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You needed to manipulate someone,” John says, selecting a bottle of vodka when he could find no drinkable whiskey to suit his tastes, “Obviously, you couldn’t get your own hands dirty with the D’Antonio’s. If the Camorra didn’t crush you, the High Table would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs a glass and pours a hearty shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca scowls, “It’s just business, Mister Wick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I got that.” He raises the bottle, glancing past DeLuca to Sofia in silent offering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. John shrugs and places the bottle back on the shelf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I couldn’t get was why me.” He turns back to the mafioso, the glass in his hand, “You could have hired someone to do your dirty work, but then you run the risk of the High Table following the money. Tracing the death of the D’Antonio’s back to you. And you needed it done on the first try, so you couldn’t risk one of your own grunts messing it up. No, you needed somebody who could do the job </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But then, there are probably a dozen other assassins you could have chosen from.” John downs the shot. “Everyone has a weakness, some far more glaring than mine. So why me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re making this personal. It wasn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> made it personal,” John interrupts, aware of the anger dripping from his tongue as he slams the glass onto the shelf behind him. It shatters and DeLuca nearly jumps, “when you brought Helen into this.” He shakes his head and takes a breath, “But then, it hit me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m god-awful at politics. Fuck, I’m probably the only person you could have blackmailed who would have willingly pulled a suicide-by-High-Table without even trying to pursue another avenue. I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready</span>
  </em>
  <span> to die, if that was what it took. But there was one thing you and your mom didn’t count on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you remember. She’s kind of hard to forget.” He holds up a hand at chin height, “Yea high. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Remarkably clever. Ridiculously gorgeous—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John.” Sofia interrupts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Sorry.” He shrugs, “She’s got a tendency of planting herself in your head. I’m sure you remember what she said about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The mommy issues and all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca turns scarlet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were all so focused on me, on what it would take for me to declare war on the High Table to gift you the Camorra, it didn’t even occur to you to be looking out for her. Hell, I can’t even blame you. I’ve made a terrible habit out of underestimating her. She kept telling me, over and over, that you couldn’t possibly be the mastermind behind all this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John ignores the outburst, “She kept telling me to look into your mother. That she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> the force behind it all. I almost didn’t listen but the moment I did, pieces just fell into place. Valentina D’Antonio’s disgraced daughter, seeking to destroy the family that held the claim that should have rightfully been hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, your mother’s plan was rather brilliant. With Lorenzo and his heirs gone, disgraced or not, she would have a paved path to retake the Camorra.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>plan!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to lie anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Killing Lorenzo and his ungrateful brats was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea! Not hers! The Syndicate </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Camorra are mine!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, a small huff of laughter escaping. “I don’t believe you.” He says honestly, “But regardless, you and your mother conspired to kill Lorenzo D’Antonio. So I suppose it doesn’t matter who came up with the plan. Sof?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmmm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get all that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every word.” She pulls out her second phone, still recording and transmitting the entire conversation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” DeLuca asks nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s one last thing I forgot to mention,” John says, “Sofia here is apprenticing under Karim Tahiri, the Manager of the Continental Morocco.” He watches as the color drains from DeLuca’s face, “Which means she’s sworn an oath to the High Table, to defend their ranks and the other sacred institutions of the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That conversation has been recorded and transmitted to the closest Adjudication service.” Sofia explains, pocketing the phone, “Mateo DeLuca, you are being apprehended under the name of the High Table for conspiring to kill incumbent Lorenzo D’Antonio. Your rights have been suspended—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I didn’t kill Lorenzo. John Wick did!” DeLuca says, frantically looking between as Sofia and John.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except,” John takes a great deal of pleasure in the way DeLuca’s eyes widen, “I didn’t. Lorenzo D’Antonio is currently enjoying a day of respite, while the rest of the world believes him to be dead, with his mistress.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>DeLuca shakes his head in disbelief, “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Santino and Gianna are at a spa in Vermont.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really shouldn’t be so amused by the sheer rage in DeLuca’s eyes, but he can’t help himself. Even more so when the mafiaso spits out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll fucking kill you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He makes it two steps in John’s direction before Sofia pinches his neck in a way that brings DeLuca to his knees, before she knocks him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling her eyes at the body on the floor, she mutters, “I’ll call Winston to send someone to pick him up. It’ll be faster than waiting for Adjudication. I can wait with him. Get out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John raises a brow, “I’m your ride.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My car is four blocks away. I think I can manage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sof—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got loose ends to tie up.” She says, looking away with a sigh, “And I’m shit at goodbyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That made two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure what he can say that covers twenty something years of watching one another’s back. The gratitude that comes from saving one another’s lives or the unique trust they had put into one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia had put her daughter’s life in John’s hands. For better or for worse, John had risked Helen’s with their crazy insane plan. And without Sofia, it would have never worked.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t cover it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye</span>
  </em>
  <span> feels wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the ever popular </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be seeing you</span>
  </em>
  <span> won’t apply anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was lucky,” he decides, “To have a friend like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gross.” He turns to leave, a small smile on his face when she stops him, “John.” He glances back but she is looking away, her gaze carefully fixed on DeLuca, “I—I meant what I said earlier. When you get out, don’t look back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sofia.” He says in parting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look back.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. I was fixed on your hand of gold; Lay in waste of my loving long ago</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks to meetmeinthematinee for reviewing this for me before posting :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was over, but not done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were still so many things to do before John could drop everything and go home to Helen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts by calling Nick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H-hello?” Jesus, the boy really was afraid of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ironic, John thinks, considering he owes this kid more than he can ever hope to repay for allowing Helen to contact him during her imprisonment. And then looking out for her at the cost of his job, possibly his life if DeLuca had found out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s done.” He says, “DeLuca’s going to be picked up by Adjudication. Are you able to stay until someone gets there to pick up Isabella?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Of course. The, uh, the bounty’s dropped then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales and, fuck, it feels so good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bounty is dropped. The contract is closed. And while he doesn’t think either of them will ever be truly safe, no one is coming after her anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. That’s, that’s good.” Nick sounds relieved, too. The younger man pauses for a moment and then tentatively asks, “Would you do me a favor, Mister Wick, sir? She told me if I ever wanted to talk… I just was wondering if you could ask her to call me. When she’s back and settled and shi—stuff. Stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, god, Helen was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>good. And it had started as manipulation, he knew. A way to save herself when he wasn’t there to do the job but there was no doubt in John’s mind that Helen would meet with Nick every week, for as long as he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, kid. I’ll pass it along.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John pauses, thoughtfully. “When Isabella’s been picked up, head over to the Continental. Ask for Winston. New York is always busy. I know they’re looking to hire another Sommelier. It’ll pay more than Syndicate; I can guarantee that. I’ll put in a good word for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, in disbelief of himself. He knew Helen was his reason, but John couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment he had gone utterly and completely </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she’d have some insight to that, he thinks, smiling to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, because he doesn’t want the knowledge that he has gone soft to spread, he adds, “Don’t fuck it up” and ends the call.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, he isn’t done in the Underworld.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For starters, the contract had been dropped but that didn’t mean the memo had gotten out. And that needed to happen before he brought Helen back home. The last thing he wanted was to bring her back only to have some kid target her because they ignored the notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hotel buzzes as John walks through the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ignores it, as he always does, approaching the front desk. There’s a small queue that has gathered in front of Charon, but the Concierge waves him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Manager is expecting you. He is in his office.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods his thanks and turns towards the hall where he’ll find Winston, only to run into Verdugo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other assassin looks him over, regarding him with vague interest. He’s carrying a weapons bag, slung over a shoulder. A duffle bag resides in his other hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s leaving, John realizes. Verdugo was a drifter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing that had kept him in New York was the possibility of a substantial bounty that has since been removed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo breaks the silence first, “I’ll admit, when I heard you were trying to get the bounty removed, I didn’t think you could do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John raises a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because what the hell is he supposed to say to that?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, no worries. Totally get it. You wouldn’t have wasted both our time if you had only realized sooner that you couldn’t kill my love?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that, John thinks, is something he’s grown very tired of hearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Underworld, for better or worse—and right now, John Wick was very much leaning towards </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse</span>
  </em>
  <span>, was all about money and advancement. Status.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The values he has been exposed to, he realizes, had been very self-serving. No wonder so many narcissists and hedonists thrived in the Underworld.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And John had survived because he was so self-reliant. He had thrived in a world where favors are currency by being willing to help others and avoiding asking for any help in return. It made him rich, in more than just money. The pile of markers in his collection is unparalleled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he still went home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life, where escapism had been his only fulfillment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Drifting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In control but, somehow, still empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until Helen had forced her way into his head, laying claim to his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly everything that had once seemed so complicated and out of reach was within his grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In that moment, he pities Verdugo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man, so much like him in so many ways. A drifter. Free of roots and obligation. Making a name for himself by virtue of skill and competency. But hollow like a tin soldier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo will move on to the next contract. The name Helen Kingston will be replaced with another unfortunate soul, who John is certain will not be as lucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’ll make his money and build his legacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’ll go home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wants to kill him along with anyone else who had hurt or threatened Helen’s life, but it occurs to him that might be a mercy. And maybe Verdugo doesn’t deserve mercy but John didn’t deserve mercy, either. But it had found him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he feels the need to say, “If I ever see you anywhere near her…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t.” Verdugo assures him, “Be seeing you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” John says, “You won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves Verdugo standing in the hall as he makes his way to Winston’s office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man doesn’t even look up as John walks in. “It would appear that you had a busy day.” He says as he practically collapses into one of the leather chairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Busy week.” John amends, “I think I finally understand the phrase </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank god it’s Friday</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston smirks, rising to his feet, “Drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, “No, thank you. I’ve had enough today, while playing politics. Did you happen to hear from Sofia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Winston says, pouring himself brandy, “I already sent someone to collect Mateo. And Isabella. She said you got a confession from the former.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo plans to force the counsel to convene on Monday, here in the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants justice meted out swiftly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That makes two of us.” John agrees with a nod. “I want this done and in the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understandably. You managed the impossible this week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t think I could do it?” John asks, thinking of his conversation with Verdugo and the time that had been wasted pursuing Helen Kingston.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the contrary,” Winston says, taking the seat next to him, “You made me a great deal of money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John arches a brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You successfully removing the bounty was the long odds over at Dex’s. Fifty to one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, fuck, but that makes him laugh. He didn’t realize how much he needed that after the stress of the day, “How much did you put down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Five grand.” Winston looks at him strangely and it occurs to John that he’s probably never laughed in front of Winston before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well-played.” He says, shaking his head in amusement. While he never intends to tell Helen of the betting odds placed on when she would die and by whose hand, he can’t help but think that she’d get a kick out of it. Either that, or she’d be pissed she never got a chance to get in on the action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah. That sounds right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know the rumor mill will have heard that the contract was dropped,” John says, “but is it possible to get Administration to send out a mass message? To confirm it, and make sure anybody working solo is notified?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll see to it myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods gratefully. That would make him feel much better about taking her back to the city. Although he’s already mentally preparing himself for the wave of anxiety that will surely hit the moment, he leaves her alone to go back to work. He tables that particular worry for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have another favor to ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston rolls his eyes, “Indeed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nick Russo. Ex-Syndicate. He burnt some bridges today to help keep Helen safe. I’d appreciate it if you considered him for the second Sommelier position you were considering opening up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man hums, “I’ll meet with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, two things are checked off his list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston was good like that. As Manager, it was his job to be accommodating and helpful and ensure everyone was getting the best services that could be offered to those serving the High Table. But it was also more than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For decades, Winston had been a mentor to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After being introduced by Charon, Winston had immediately taken to the young, reckless assassin. He’d seen something that others had brushed to the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And John had been skeptical. Untrusting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Winston had been relentless. He offered sound advice that John found hard to ignore. Slowly, John had found himself utilizing the Manager. After moving back to New York, it became clear that Winston knew the city and its inhabitants better than anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, John had begun to trust him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston had tried to line John up for Management but had accepted his decision when John, respectfully, denied interest in such a path. While Winston mourned John’s lack of ambition, he continued to serve as a mentor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arguably, the closest thing John had ever had to a father-figure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John doesn’t doubt, for a moment, his decision to retire. He will miss very little about the Underworld. But Winston would be counted amongst them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while John doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation, he owes it to Winston to be the one to tell him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve decided to retire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston’s head turns sharply, “Pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John sits up straighter in the chair, “I’m retiring. As soon as everything has been taken care of, I’m leaving the Underworld.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonathan, you have obligations.” Winston says, shaking his head, “You can’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>retire</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo is freeing me of my contractual obligations. I intend to reach out to Viggo to make arrangements as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lorenzo D’Antonio is letting you walk away?” The surprise is evident in his voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miraculous in itself, but you cannot expect Viggo to do the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t take no for an answer.” John says softly, “One way or another, I’m getting out. And I’ve made up my mind about this. It won’t be changed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaves no room for argument. Bittersweet as it may be, there is nothing that can change his mind anymore. Even if Helen didn’t want him, he would have left to keep her safe. His enemies wouldn’t have used her against him if he was no longer a problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Helen did want him. She loved him, beyond all reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever will you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John feels his lips twitch. Aside from keeping house and devoting the majority of his time to ensuring Helen’s happiness—that she never regrets choosing him, he really isn’t sure. He knew he didn’t have it in him, nor did he have the credentials or the qualifications, to work in the real world. At least, for most occupations.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, truthfully, he was tired of the constant work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hating his life and coming home to an empty house, John had filled his life with work. Work until the point of distraction. Which meant extra jobs, far beyond working for money. He worked to kill people and time, respectively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Decades of working seven days a week, every day of the year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s looking forward to the break.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’d pick up a hobby. He’d continue to bind books through the coldness of the winter. Maybe he’d even start to sell them or volunteer with a library to fix old tomes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Maybe, come springtime, he’d actually open the pool in his backyard which had been closed and unused since he first moved in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He planned to cook for her. Maybe he’d get into that. Learn to make things from scratch. To bake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The possibilities were endless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” He answers honestly and he’s… surprisingly okay with that. The uncertainty would usually throw him for a loop, but John finds himself completely and unexpectedly happy not knowing. It was freeing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” John interrupts before Winston can say </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “More sure, more certain than I have ever been about anything in my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Winston nods, slowly. He doesn’t understand, John knows. The old man probably won’t ever understand why John was giving up the wealth, the prestige, the permanent get-out-of-jail-free card that existed for the members of the Underworld.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As soon as possible. I plan on testifying Monday. I’ll meet with Viggo after and inform him of my intentions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will not be easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t expect it to be. But it won’t matter. Whatever Viggo demands, I’ll do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he would. Nothing would stop him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence as Winston seems to digest it all. It’s odd, he thinks. He knows Winston disapproves, just as he had when John had first told him about Helen. But Winston knows that John doesn’t give a fuck about approval. No one’s opinion influenced him, save Helen’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He missed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had only been hours since he had last held her in his arms, and he missed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this what it was to be in love? To crave the presence of another in any and every form? To hold them in your mind’s eye even when you are away?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How did people stand it, living like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, John acknowledges, he would not give it up for the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I find myself at a loss for words.” Winston says after minutes of silence. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were ready to burn New York to the ground to find her. Ready to declare war on the High Table to get her back.” The old man shakes his head, “And you seem certain. I know your mind will not be changed. But I feel the need to ask you, once more, Jonathan: is she really worth it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John thinks of her smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kindness in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warmth of her touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her quick wit. Her inquisitive nature. The way she just accepted things as they were. The way she shut him down when he was starting to bullshit himself. The books he had mentioned in passing on her bedside table as she made the effort no one else had to understand him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “She really is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>……….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He parks the car and John feels another wave of relief wash over him. The fact that it’s over, that Helen is safe keeps hitting him again and again. And now, he’s within feet of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slips out of the car, admiring for the first time since they moved to the Vermont safehouse how bright the stars were when there were no lights around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door opens and Marcus steps out, his bag in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I take it everything went well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. “You leaving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus nods back, closing the door behind him. “After everything, I figured you two could probably use some time alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s grateful for Marcus’ reasoning. While John had no intention of kicking Marcus out, he’s right. The only thing John wants to do is wrap Helen up in his arms and never let her go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” He says, “For everything. I’ll never be able to re—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” Marcus shakes his head. “I was happy to do it. More for her sake than for yours. You’re still kind of a dick but… she makes you almost tolerable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John huffs out a laugh, “Who would have thought.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That the only person capable of taking you down was a therapist who can barely form a sentence fragment without coffee?” Marcus exhales in disbelief. “Mind-boggling. Call me when you two get back to the city.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will do.” John promises as Marcus throws his duffle into the trunk of his car as he makes his way up the short stairs and into the cottage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slips off his suit jacket, hanging it by the door. He undoes the buttons on his vest, one by one, as he walks down the hall towards the living room. He tugs that off, too, draping it over the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not in the living room or the kitchen. He continues down the hall towards their bedroom. The door is open and, sure enough, Helen is in bed. Her back leans against the headboard, a book is open in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John leans against the door, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before him is a sight he could spend an eternity gazing in wonder at. Her glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose as she reads. He watches as she reaches for her bookmark without looking up, turning the page as she inserts it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a glance, she smiles, “Hi honey, how was your day?” She asks as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He loves her for it. For making him feel some semblance of normality amidst the bullshit and the chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John swallows even as his lips twitch in amusement. “Oh, you know. Bitch of a commute. Faked a powerful man’s death. Tried my hand at politics. Not a fan. Then I took down a mafia boss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sets her book aside before removing her glasses. Helen scans him up and down, assessing for injuries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart swells with love and adoration. It consumes him and makes it almost difficult to breathe. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all these emotions flowing through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, like she can sense he’s overwhelmed, Helen stands up. She crosses the room, her dark eyes gazing into him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if she can see his soul. And if she can, will she change her mind about him? Will she realize how truly terrible, how awful he is?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he looks into those brown eyes, all he sees reflected back is love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She loves him, he thinks, even though he doesn’t deserve it. He was a despicable human being. One who had dragged her into the depths of Hell. Even still, she never wavered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen was stronger than he ever hoped to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she loved him. Despite everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It staggers him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen reaches him and he cannot help but fall to his knees before her. His arms wrap around her middle, seemingly of their own accord, and he buries his face against her stomach. John’s breath escapes him in a shudder as her arms come up around him, holding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She strokes his hair and he can barely hold back a sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, fuck it all, the dam breaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d lost her, this week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone had taken her, stolen her from her bed. Had </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt </span>
  </em>
  <span>her to get to him. Had put a bounty on her head for the sole purpose of manipulating him, simultaneously activating agents to find her and kill his beloved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Verdugo, who promised to make it quick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kate, who would have obliterated Helen until there was nothing left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kids in the alley, looking to make a name for themselves, would have killed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Along with the hundreds of others who had searched for her, even idly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had spent a week feeling out of control, out of his depth. Unsure of how to save her, hating himself for putting her into that position. Terrified that one wrong move could lead to her death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” He chokes out, aware that his tears are soaking into her shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps back, only to drop to her knees, too. Her arms wrap around him in a tight hug as he rests his head at the crook of her neck. A hand comes up to cradle his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be sorry for.” She assures him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, heavily. He’s not sure when he last cried but it had to have been decades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my fault…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arm around his back tightens and she turns her face to his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry I didn’t… didn’t protect you better… and---”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” the hand on his head moves to his cheek and she leans back to look at him. Her thumb strokes a tear, “You didn’t know. You had no reason to suspect that I would be targeted. But you know what?” Her fingers massage his neck, “I’m glad I was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head in disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If DeLuca hadn’t have taken me,” she says softly, “I would have seen you for an hour this week. And an hour next. And the week after that. And that would be it. I would have loved you from afar because that’s all I could do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But now,” she runs her fingers down his face, “I can hold you. And kiss you. And love you. And that is more than worth the price of spending a couple uncomfortable days locked in a basement and a couple more hidden away from the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shakes his head, because she is unreal sometimes. “You deserve so much be—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>We </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t get to decide what we deserve, John. That’s never been up to us.” She echoes what she had told him that day in her office. Hours before she had been taken. “But we do get some say in how we’re going to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John finds himself swallowing, his breath hitching as he tries to breathe in. “And how are we going to live?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Helen says with a soft smile, “We’re going to start by hiding away for the rest of the weekend. And you’re going to make good on your promise to fuck me on your tongue until I can’t scream anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t help but chuckle at how serious she sounds but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Yeah, he’s definitely doing that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then, we’re going to go home. And instead of picking my lock to sneak inside and watch me sleep, you’re going to fall asleep next to me. And instead of leaving before daylight, you’re going to wake up with me. Every day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll take weekend trips to Vermont, every now and then. I’ll make you go antiquing with me.” He laughs at that. Helen smiles back, continuing, “And I’ll make you take me to that other house you’ve got in Maine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s on a lake.” He tells her, thinking she might like that. He’ll buy a boat. Or a few, unsure if she’d prefer a motorboat or something like a kayak. Whatever she decides, she’ll have. She’ll never want for anything so long as he is breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen moves so that she is high on her knees. Her hands reach to cup either side of his face and she leans in to press her lips to his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to have a really good life.” She promises and fuck, he believes her. “And we’re going to be so fucking happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses her way down his face, slowly. Tenderly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips reach his. How, he thinks, can a kiss be so gentle? So different than anything he’s ever experienced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was glorious when she kissed him passionately. It drove him wild when her teeth nipped at his lips or her tongue greedily sucked at his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she’s being so soft that it might very well break him again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t look at him and see the Boogeyman. Even knowing who he was, she didn’t let it influence her opinion of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt human in her arms, in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loves her for it. Among the plethora of reasons that he loved and adored her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John wraps his arms under her thighs, rising to his feet, and pulling her up with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kisses the corner of his mouth as he carries her over to the bed. “I love you,” she whispers as he lays her down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both undress, taking their time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The initial desperation has faded and while John is certain it will come back again, he is more than content to take it slow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they are both naked, John revels in the warmth of her skin. He kisses his way around her body, allowing his hands the time to memorize every curve, dip, and swell of her body. And she lets him, like she knows how badly he needs this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she probably does, he thinks. She’s always been in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen’s hand reaches the top of his head, stroking back his hair as he kisses every inch of skin he can reach from his place atop of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His open-mouth grazes across her collarbone and John soaks in the way her hand tightens in his hair, her sharp intake of breath as his teeth scrape against her skin. He wonders what other sounds he can coax from her body… He’ll spend forever finding out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John kisses her lips again. How addictive that feeling, that taste has become.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One hand tilts her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss while his other stretches down her perfect body, dipping between her thighs. He cups her core, feeling the warmth radiating from within her. He dips a finger between her folds. She’s soaking and it’s all for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kisses her harder, feeling his lips bruise as he gently circles his clit with his finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moans into his mouth and he swallows it down.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, and has to remind himself that he can say that now. He doesn’t have to keep it bottled in. He wonders how long it will take until he can say it without hesitation. Until it spills as easily from his lips as it comes to echo in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, Hels.” He tells her, kissing down her jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John!” She cries out as he continues to toy with her sensitive clit. He reaches down, coating his fingers in her slick heat before pressing them into her opening. His thumb takes over rolling over the sensitive bundles of nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen whimpers, her nails digging into his back. He nips at her throat with his teeth. She’s marked him well enough. Now it’s his turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to claim her. To leave his mark all over her so that anyone who sees her will have no doubt that she is taken. One day, he swears to himself that he’ll put a ring on her finger, but until then, he’ll be content with this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than content.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks at her neck and plays with her clit until she is a moaning, writhing mess. Before she can reach her release, however, he removes his fingers from her pussy and brings them to his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen shudders as she watches him suck her essence from his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own cock twitches at the taste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he is done, she grabs his hair and yanks him back for a kiss. She sucks on his tongue, tasting herself and he’s never been harder in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes his heavy cock in hand and brings it to her entrance. He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch. Letting himself focus on every sensation. The way her pussy yields to him, clenching around him. The way her stomach tightens and her breath stutters. Her grip around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes as he finds himself completely buried inside of her. His hips cannot go any further.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hitch in her breath delights him. John draws back out, reveling in the soft changes in her breath, before he drives back in. Helen cries out and he kisses her neck. Her pussy tightens around him at the sensation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never needed anyone the way he needs her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he never will again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This woman is everything to him. She is it for him. And he’ll love her with every fiber, every atom of his being until he dies. And then beyond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, baby!” She cranes her neck, giving him more access.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a mental note of how much she loves the attention he’s paying to her throat. He nips and she arches her back, crying out yet again. Clenching around him, again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his hips, careful to ensure steady pressure to her clit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it’s about her. It’s always been about her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his head, turning her head back to him so he can kiss her yet again. Languidly drowning in her as he takes his time fucking her, bringing her to the edge yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen swears, her nails biting into him. Her hips meet his, grinding against him as she moans. His thrusts increase in speed and John feels Helen’s entire body seem to tighten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all at once, she breaks around him, crying out as a wave of pleasure slams into her. The way her pussy throbs around him is enough to make him lose his resolve and he soon finds himself spilling inside of her with a loud groan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes lose their focus as his head drops down to the pillow, nestling in the crook of her neck as he breathes heavily. The rush of immediate pleasure leaves him but he is left feeling glorious as he lies on top of her body, still buried inside of her, still feeling the aftershocks of her own orgasm milking him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an exhale, he raises his head to look back at her. Her beautiful eyes gazing at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen reaches up. She pushes back the hair which had fallen into his face before wrapping her hand around to the back of his head, guiding his forehead to rest on hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, John.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too.” He says, swallowing back the emotions that overwhelm him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s never going to let her forget it. She will never have the opportunity to forget or doubt that he loves her. That she is his everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What she said earlier was true: they were going to be so fucking happy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he was going to do this right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John kisses her cheek, “How about I buy you dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen smiles back, “After all this, you better.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. That's It</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much to meetmeinthematinee for your continued support on this fic and helping me edit, which is m least favorite thing in the world.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A new start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was what she had deemed it. For both of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John went around the city. Closing accounts. Transferring mountains of coins into actual money. Saying silent goodbyes to the places that had defined him for a lifetime. And stashing markers, money, and weapons. Just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hopes he will never have to use them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, while he does that, Helen packs up her house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The decision to move in together came approximately two days after returning from Vermont. They’d wasted enough time, they both decided. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“And,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Helen had teased, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“God forbid we decide to spend a night apart, I already know you’ll sneak in to watch me sleep.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minx.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m more than happy to sell my place.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had told her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’ve given up your entire life for me.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She had argued, gently running her hand through his hair. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I’ll give up the house. Besides, if you think I’m giving up your hot tub, you’re fucking dreaming.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And that had been that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d driven to her house, stopping to pick up boxes and tape and bubble wrap, and started packing up.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>She made some calls around the city, looking for charities to donate some of her furniture to. John’s bed, she had discovered, was far more comfortable than hers. And they didn’t need multiple dining room tables or sets of cookware or dishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John borrowed a truck from Aurelio and, with his and Marcus’ help, started dropping things off across the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the remaining days of her “recovery”/vacation, they manage to empty most of her little house. And while </span>
  <em>
    <span>their</span>
  </em>
  <span> house (he will never get used to the sheer joy that fills him at that descriptor) is now a mess of boxes and suitcases, it has never felt more like home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs at the three boxes of shoes Helen has to unpack, only to have to dodge a high heel used as a projectile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He revels in the way she unpacks her sweaters and dresses to hang across from his clothes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He also takes a great deal of pleasure when he finds the small box, once hidden away in the back of her closet, containing a number of delightful little toys. He gets another shoe thrown at him as he practically begs for details.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen laughs and offers a private demonstration… once her books are shelved in the library. John scrambles to fulfill her every wish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the benefits of Helen having her own practice was that she could really do whatever the hell she wanted. She had reached out to all her clients first thing on Monday to apologize for her absence, reporting that she had been the victim in a hit-and-run, leaving her in a coma for the better part of the week. While she was doing much better, she told them, she still needed another week for recovery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, the Underworld had bought out half the cops in the city. A quick call from John Wick and shit was being filed </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> how he demanded it to be. Doctor’s notes were forged, along with hospital ‘records.’ That part was easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What had been much more complicated, John discovered, was dealing with the missing person’s out on Helen and it throws his world off kilter, yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her family had been terrified. While Helen wasn’t exactly in constant contact with them, the police had reached out after a concerned associate of Helen’s reported her missing. Unable to contact her, her parents and sister had been in a frenzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using the phone that John had paid for, insisting that he buy her a new one since it was his enemy who had destroyed hers, she reluctantly calls her mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mom, I am begging you, stay home. I’m fine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We’ve been so worried!” John hears her mother sobbing on the other side of the line, “A hit-and-run, oh, sweetheart!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And if </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>her mother’s reaction from a hit-and-run, John doesn’t want to know what her mother would do if she ever found out the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kidnapped, held hostage, marked for death…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poor woman might have a heart attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re still recovering! You need someone to take care of you!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I have someone taking care of me.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Helen had said, and at that moment, John had indeed been massaging her shoulders. His lips had twitched in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was the one taking care of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would be the one taking care of her forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made him giddy to think about.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Who?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>They hadn’t discussed labels. It all seemed sort of unnecessary after all they had been through.</span> <span>But when Helen makes the executive decision and says, “my boyfriend” John wonders if he’s the one having a heart attack with the way his own is beating so hard it feels like it might burst at any moment.</span></p><p>
  <span>Boyfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never been a boyfriend before. He’d never had any interest in being a boyfriend before. A term he’d never imagined being applied to him but now that it was…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was a boyfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Helen’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>boyfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s filled with pride and affection and so much love he doesn’t know what to do. She leans into him, reaching up to where his hands have stopped massaging as he attempts to process her words. And because she’s Helen and she knows him better than he knows himself, she squeezes his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grounding him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, of course, her confession to her mother opens another avenue of questions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What boyfriend? How long have you been seeing each other? Why haven’t you mentioned him before?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>To which Helen answers respectively</span>
  <em>
    <span> his name is John. We met seven months ago. And because who I date and when I decide to share that information is my choice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s another half an hour of questioning before Helen manages to talk her way off of the phone after wrangling a promise that her mother would </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fly to New York. In return, Helen was to send her daily text updates on her health.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her sister was another matter. Living only an hour away in Trenton, her sister insisted on driving up. It ended up working well, however. While he had testified without a single problem, John hadn’t had the time to meet with Tarasov.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Wednesday, Helen agreed to meet her sister for lunch while John had gone to meet with a mob boss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John arrives at Tarasov’s compound and, once again, finds himself subject to stares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had always been there. The Baba Yaga was the focal of fascination for a great many, but most had always tried to hide the attention they paid to the man, the monster. But since Helen’s existence had been made known, he’s found himself front and center everywhere he goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it had only become worse after being questioned by the High Table on the DeLuca’s and their involvement. While John had repeatedly stated he would not answer questions regarding his relationship with Helen, it didn’t stop the questions from coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>During the trial and afterwards, members of the High Table had tried to push. John had given them nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John is silent as he walks up to Viggo’s office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last tie to sever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Abram was scared enough of John Wick to let him go without a fight, John was certain that Viggo’s ambition would rise to the occasion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, hadn’t John Wick done the impossible? He had brought down Syndicate and saved the girl with every odd stacked against him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now Viggo wanted a piece of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And John will do it. Of course, he will do anything if it means being released.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Retirement is so close he can taste it as he steps into the familiar office, closing the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viggo Tarasov sits at his desk, setting his paper aside as John takes a seat in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John.” Viggo greets, “I was surprised to hear from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John inclines his head. Viggo was full of shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lorenzo had shared with his children that he had released John Wick of his contract following the trial. The rest of the Underworld knew by sundown. John was certain that Viggo was well aware of John’s intentions in this meeting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m retiring.” John says, truly not in the mood for games.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viggo nods in response to the news, clearly expecting John’s announcement. “Very few people retire from our world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because most are dead long before they reach my age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m older than you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a desk job.” John points out, aware that his status is the only reason he can get away with saying such things to Viggo Tarasov.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viggo waves a hand vaguely, “You’ve never had interest in a desk job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nor do I now. However, I still intend to live a while longer. In peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peace.” Viggo says, testing the word on his tongue, “That must be a foreign concept to a man like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A year ago, John would have agreed with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, eight months ago, John would have agreed with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while his experiences were still limited, he already had a glimpse of peace. In the weekly visits he had paid to Helen’s office. In the quiet of the night as he meditated to each and every intake and exhale of breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, John knew peace in the moments before his alarm went off and he held Helen close to him. He knew peace in the way she wrapped herself around him as he made her coffee. He knew peace in the way her head rested on his shoulder or in the soft flips of pages as Helen read by his side. He knew peace in the moments where she held him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m aware you hold my contract,” John says, ignoring Viggo’s comment. “I am more than willing to buy it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A longshot, John knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viggo tilts his head to the side, like he’s considering it. Yet John knows, from that single action, that Viggo already has something in mind. Something he wants done that only John Wick can manage. John just fucking wishes he’d get to the point instead of treating this like a game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At this time, your contract is not for sale.” Viggo says, “However, there is a task I have in mind. A bit… difficult, to say the least. But, should you complete this for me, I would be more than willing to release you from your contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you have in mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bit of an impossible task…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When John arrives home and he’s relieved to find Helen’s car parked out front. He makes a mental note to install a garage opener in her car as soon as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John quickly goes inside, not wasting any time. The desire to set eyes on her is overwhelming and he wonders how he managed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> see her at night for months on end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not certain he can ever again go longer than hours without seeing her, touching her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen has become an addiction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he doesn’t find her in the living room or the kitchen, he goes upstairs. Sure enough, she is in the library, kneeling in front of a bookcase as her fingers trace over the spines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was lunch?” He asks and Helen’s lips twitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With anyone else, he might have scared them. Even in his own home, he tends to walk lightly so as not to be noticed. But she’s always had that sixth sense about him. It brings him an absurd amount of happiness to know that she understands and sees him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was fine.” She reaches a hand up. John takes it and helps tug her back to her feet. “Got a bit of the third degree but I suppose I can’t blame her for being curious, all things considered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On tiptoes, she gives him a quick kiss. “How was Tarasov?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As expected,” John says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen hums as she looks him over, “Indirect answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It could be worse.” John tries again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now you’re being evasive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had warned him life would be like this. She’s spent the better part of her life learning to read people and despite being an enigma to most of the world, John Wick is an open book to Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t bring himself to be upset when they both knew this was exactly how it was going to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants me to complete a rather difficult task.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How dangerous is this going to be?” She asks, folding her arms over her stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did that when she was worried, John had noticed. He hates that it’s him causing her such stress but comforts himself with the fact that this will be the last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fairly.” Helen’s face is that unique mix of impassive and empathetic that he was used to seeing in her office. He steps forward, catching her chin in his hand and drawing up her face. “I’ll be fine.” He promises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gives him a small smile and nods. She’s scared, he knows. And he is too. He’s never had so much to lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does he want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to shake his head and tell her not to worry about it. But he knows exactly how that conversation will go if he tries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are a few rival Russian gangs that Viggo wants control of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few?” Her brows shoot up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he should have phrased that better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he’s unsurprised by Viggo’s demands given the opportunity to manipulate the Baba Yaga, Helen worries. She used to joke that it was her job to worry—that he paid her good money for such. And he would smile and promise to see her next week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But things had changed so much since DeLuca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She understood a little bit more just what John was capable of. In the moments when she had been in DeLuca’s grasp, </span>
  <em>
    <span>John</span>
  </em>
  <span> had learned a bit more of what he was capable of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in understanding that, she grew more worried. When it came to her, they both knew that he was capable of </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that made him reckless, to a degree.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It goes both ways, John.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She told him when he had first explained what it would take to actually retire, what he might need to do to be released by the Tarasov’s. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“You worry about me constantly, but I worry about you too. Do you really think I would be okay if something happened to you?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You could move on.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He had replied, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I know you would hurt, but you could go on living your life.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“For one of the smartest people I know, you’re an idiot, John. I would be </span>
  </em>
  <span>devastated</span>
  <em>
    <span> if something happened to you, if I lost you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s different.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Like hell it is. Do you know how many nights I used to lie awake until you would get to my house because I was so paranoid, so scared that something would happen to you?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Helen had shaken her head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Or that I used to spend my Friday’s in an anxious blur, terrified that one day you just weren’t going to show up. That you’d just… be gone.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s different.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” John had maintained, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hels, you’re—you’re all I have.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was just a fact. Without him, Helen would have her family, her friends, her work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But without her… what would he be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will be fine.” He promises, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair back from where it had fallen in her face. It assures him that she is real and safe when his thoughts start to overwhelm him, “This is more of a point-and-shoot kind of gig. Just with a lot of moving targets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An impossible number of moving targets. He forgoes saying as much, still trying to formulate a plan in his mind on how he’s going to pull this off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a timeline?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Technically, no. Viggo hadn’t given him any sort of indication of when he wanted it completed, but John was strongly in favor of doing it as quickly as possible. The sooner the task was completed, the sooner he was free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> And, oh, what a thought that was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friday.” He answers aloud. Two days away. It would give him the time to prepare, because once he started, he could not stop until he was done.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, leaning her head against his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hates that he is responsible for making her worry. John pulls her into a hug, wrapping her in his arms securely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” he kisses the top of her head, “Let’s go pack some more of your books to bring over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brightens visibly at that and they make another trip to her house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Helen desperately needs the distraction, John realizes it’s just as beneficial for him. It reassures him, just as her touch does, that she’s real. That this is actually happening and not just some coma dream, which he felt might be more realistic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spend Thursday much the same way. While he’s tried to tempt Helen to take another week of vacation, she only shakes her head and says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“It wouldn’t be fair to my clients</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus comes over to help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Helen, if he’s blackmailing you into moving in with him, I can get you help. Blink once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older assassin dodges multiple projectiles from multiple directions, laughing all the while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious! You can do better!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a joke, and John </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that, but he still appreciates the extra affection she shows him. Like she knows that John still lays awake at night, wondering if he was good enough for her. But she slips under his arm, resting against his chest while she shoots back, “Forgive me for not taking advice from a man who’s still in a committed relationship with his daddy issues.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a sound of pain even as he grins, “Low blow, Kingston.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come at my man, I’ll come for your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My man</span>
  </em>
  <span> echoes around in John’s head for hours after that and Marcus’ teasing was soon forgotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that declaration, his hands, which were impossibly steady when aiming a gun or striking a blow, were shaky. He had to talk himself through wrapping up her décor so as not to break it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They loaded up the borrowed truck, driven by Marcus, as well as stuffing her SUV full.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hope you don’t change your mind about him, because I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> doing this again.” Marcus complains after he and John manage to get her loveseat into the back of the pickup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not concerned.” She says and the conviction in her words and her tone leaves John all the more in love with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. He is no longer strong enough to let her go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John watches with fascination and awe as he hears a dog bark and watches as her eyes light up. An older man approaches with a golden retriever pulling on its leash trying to reach Helen. He recognizes the dog from the neighborhood, having seen it be taken outside late at night from a few houses over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dog breaks free of the owner, tearing the leash from his hand, bolting towards Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning, Helen drops down low and braces for the contact. “Hey, Buddy.” She says, scratching the pup behind the ears as the dog pants excitedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Helen!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries,” She calls back to the owner, “You know I’m always down for a Buddy-snuggle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus snorts and mutters to John, “How easily you can be replaced.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John rolls his eyes, smiling all the while as she coos to the dog lovingly. He thinks back to the first time she met, showing him pictures of her favorite dogs. He had been almost surprised that she didn’t have one of her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a final pet to the stop of Buddy’s head, she sends him back over to the owner with a wave, before climbing back to her feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A part of him was reluctant to share her but he could imagine, maybe somewhere down the line, getting a dog with Helen. He thinks she would like that, the potential images flipping through his head and filling him with an unexpected warmth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should have guessed you were a dog person,” Marcus says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always have been.” She replies, slipping back under John’s arms. Even with moving furniture and boxes, it’s still cold outside. He tucks his chin to her head and wraps his arms around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes sense given your choice in partner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She throws Marcus a look, but he holds up his hands defensively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not like that! No need to bring my daddy issues into this. Just meant he’s got some of those qualities. Unwavering loyalty, literally the definition of a dog with a bone when it comes to you. Protective, but a little bit stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Marcus.” John says, rolling his eyes yet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I prefer dogs to people, anyway.” Helen says, patting his arm. “Far less complicated. They don’t make muddles out of things the way we do. And they’re far less self-interested.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All this, coming from the only one of us who works with humans for a living.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grins at that, “It’s why I can say, without a doubt, that dogs are better than people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Aren’t you supposed to be hyper-empathic to the human experience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can be. And there is a lot about said human experience that I admire,” Helen says, “We’re an incredibly resilient species. The mind can handle just about anything, which is remarkable when you think about it. And we’ve worked to build societies based on mutual respect and social currency. There’s drama and endless uphill battles, struggles and triumphs, and a capacity for healing unseen in any other creatures,” She shrugs, “But there’s something to be said for just </span>
  <em>
    <span>living</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Simply, at that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his arms tightening around her as he presses a kiss to her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loves her more than he’ll ever be able to express. Helen leans to the side so her face is just below his and kisses him once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to finish with my room.” She tells him and slips out of his arms. He watches as she walks back into the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s giving it up for him. Her home, her space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still so surreal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s incredible.” Marcus says softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t deserve her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you don’t.” His friend smiles, “Luckily, she loves you anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was strange to think that they had only declared their love for each other a week ago. A single week of verbally and physically expressing their love for one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It simultaneously felt like an eternity and no time at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John heads back into the house, following her path to her bedroom. Her clothes and jewelry had already been packed but her furniture, along with a handful of other things, was left behind. She had washed her sheets earlier and was packing them in a box marked </span>
  <em>
    <span>donations</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes one end of the sheet and helps her start to fold the next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question pours from him before he can even think about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like a dog?” John asks, “You know, someday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She steps forward, collecting the sheet, an eyebrow raised in surprise. “Would </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>want a dog?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John shrugs, truly uncaring. “I like dogs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there’s a difference between liking dogs and wanting a dog. Would you actually want to have a pet? In your perfectly kept, immaculate house?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels like he shouldn’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want whatever you want</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he doesn’t want to burden her with all the decisions, but truthfully, the only thing in life he wants is to make her happy. The little details don’t matter to him so much as giving her the opportunity to smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t mind either way,” he says as she folds it one last time and places it in the box with the others, “And the house is immaculate because I barely spend time there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She considers it for a moment, and he feels his heart flutter with the twitch of her lips. “Yeah. Someday. Maybe we adopt an older dog. I’ve always had a soft spot for the rejects.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes sense.” John teases and she rolls her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swear, John Wick, if you make another orphan joke…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins, stepping into her space. He catches her face in his hands and draws her in for a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her soft lips yield to him and he will never understand what he has done to deserve such grace. But he swears to himself that he will never take for granted her presence or her touch or her love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is happiness. It’s also only the beginning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Friday comes, as it must.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John had wondered if he would feel nervous or anxious for his final mission, his last task. Instead, he wakes up feeling eerily calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never been so grateful for something to end. But then, he’s never had a beginning to look forward to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen, he finds, is far more nervous than he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should you be resting?” She asks as he takes down some of his own books so he can move the shelves around. He wouldn’t be leaving until sunset, much preferring to use the cover of darkness to hide his presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine.” He assures her. He’s gone on countless missions without sleeping or after only getting a few hours here and there to keep him going. Truthfully, having slept a full eight hours the night before is more than he usually gets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he knows it’s not enough to stop her from worrying so John distracts her. First with planning out their new library. When that didn’t hold her attention enough, he switched to distracting her with his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sacrifice he was more than willing to make.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fucked her in the library before carrying her to the bedroom to take her again. And Helen was insatiable, much to his delight. But fucking her to the point of exhaustion took far more out of him than he anticipated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she’s finally too tired to carry on, John finds himself closing his eyes and resting his head in the crook of her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her fingers trace the back of his neck as she whispers, “Gotcha.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She really is brilliant, he thinks, as John finds himself manipulated into napping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up feeling far more rested and newly motivated to go out and come back home. To never be forced to leave her side again, so long as they both lived.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all so close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen runs her hand over his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for making me sleep.” He teases softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Helen grins at that, leaning forward to kiss him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, this is what waits for him on the other side of the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It motivates him anew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John showers and dresses. His traditional three-piece, he hopes to never wear again. For her sake, he leaves the tie on the bureau.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slips a small gun into his ankle holster, a knife into his sock. He chooses his weapons carefully as he prepares for the night ahead of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving is so very different than it had always been. Rather than heading straight from his room to his car, he detours to find his partner. To see her, to kiss her before he goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear conversation flowing from the kitchen as he reaches the bottom of the stairs and blinks in surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips into the kitchen and watches as Helen rummages around in the fridge before pulling out and handing Marcus a beer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus, he thinks, is probably the person he would miss the most. One of his oldest friends. One of the first people he ever learned to trust.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone he would soon have to say goodbye to, along with everyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A large brown paper bag sits in front of him on the kitchen counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marcus.” John greets as he steps into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John.” Marcus uses the edge of the counter to pry the bottle cap off. “Everything in place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods. He had weapons stored around the city and Santino would be assisting. John had been reluctant to make a deal with the mafioso when he was so close to retirement but there were too many moving parts for what Tarasov had asked for John to accomplish it alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Santino swore, so long as John stayed out of the Underworld, he would not use the marker John had promised him. But, should he ever step foot back, he was fair game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost felt bad for Santino. He would never go back to that life. Not while he had Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t know you were coming over.” John comments, watching as Helen opens a bottle of wine for herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somebody’s got to keep your girl from losing her mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an important job.” Helen jokes, smiling up at John. “I was afraid I was going to go stir-crazy waiting here at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can understand that. He had nearly gone insane in hours after she had been kidnapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John holds open an arm for her, and she wraps around him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you two going to do?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marcus brought Thai food,” she gestures to the paper bag, “And we’re going to get drunk then watch and score kung-fu movies bloodlust, technique, and general sexiness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John smiles down at Helen, wondering how he ever managed to make it day to day without her. “Sounds like fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re starting with Enter the Dragon. Which I’m going to go get set up.” Helen stands on tiptoes and gives John a quick kiss, before grabbing her wine glass and heading to the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last mission.” Marcus says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods again, “It is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been spending too much time with Helen.” John jokes, thinking of all the times his girlfriend had asked him that very same question, “But I feel ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nervous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” Marcus glances to where she had exited, “I worried in the beginning. That you weren’t thinking clearly; that she didn’t have what it takes to be involved with an assassin. I’m glad I was wrong on both counts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John looks down because he really doesn’t know how to have this conversation. He’d said his goodbyes to Sofia, to Winston, to Charon. To the few members of the Underworld that mattered to him. But this is one he just doesn’t know how to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus has had his back for two decades. He’d been his friend and confidant. The only person on the planet John had felt he could trust Helen to when his life fell apart. The man who, even now, was devoting his time to helping Helen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know the rules,” Marcus says quietly, “That after tonight… we go our separate ways…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish it didn’t have to be like that.” John says just as softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s told Helen, explained it to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had been angry, at first. That John was being forced to give up his friends along with everything else. That the Underworld was so unwavering and rigid with their rules and expectations. Then, she had been sad. Then guilty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She promised she would love him whether he left the Underworld or not and he believed her. But the life he wanted… it was for both of them. And it didn’t involve looking over their shoulders every moment of every day. He wanted to take her to dinner and not worry that the man two tables over was packing. To go to the farmer’s market without wondering if someone was going to attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He told her again and again that this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>decision. That he was the one deciding to part ways in order to have the life that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he has no regrets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice for that life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too. But… you’re making the right choice, John.” Marcus assures him. “And I know that we won’t be able to go get a beer or hang out but write to me now and then. Send me the announcement if you ever convince that beautiful woman to marry you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John nods, “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe it’s because it’s goodbye, or maybe Helen has made him completely soft, but John walks across the room and hugs his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. For everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus nods, “Just… live well. Take care of each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They part and John leaves Marcus to sort through the takeout he had brought with him. John follows Helen into the living room. She is using the remote to type in a password, standing barefoot in the middle of the sunken section.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John takes the two steps down. Helen glances up as he does. He watches her swallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time to go?” She asks softly and he nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tosses the remote to the side and throws her arms around him. Her grip is impossibly tight, but he doesn’t mind. He’s never felt more loved than when her arms are around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be careful out there?” her voice breaks a bit as she asks the same question, she asked every single week before he left the safety of her office. Right before John went out to venture into the Underworld.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise.” He kisses the top of her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breathes a soft sigh of relief. Helen leans back, looking up at him even if she doesn’t release her arms. “Because if you’re not back by morning, I’m coming after you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Partially because there was no way in Hell he was ever letting her become involved with the Underworld again but mostly because she was his home. The only one he had ever known.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John catches her jaw in his hand and angles her face upward and teases, “It will be over soon. This time next week, you’ll be so annoyed with me, you’ll be wishing you could send me back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never.” She says even as she smiles. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too.” He kisses her lips, giving himself a moment to be completely consumed by her. To memorize, once more, her smell and touch and taste. He’ll take her with him everywhere he goes and hold on to the memory to guide him back home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a final, soft kiss on lips he releases her. To leave her side one last time. He walks back up the steps to the leveled floor. He reaches out for the handle to the garage door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“John?” She says and he glances back, “Come home to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips twitch as he opens the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the morning comes their promise of forever.</span>
</p>
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